by Ward Larsen
Slaton noticed a bump in the pressurization, his ears popping. The engines went to idle and things got quiet for a time. The descent took roughly ten minutes, and finally he heard the distinctive ding-dong chime over the speaker.
Slaton nodded.
Yosy opened the lid, and together they dragged Ramzi Tayeb’s body from the trunk.
Slaton turned toward the main entry door. What he was about to do would not have been possible on a factory-standard Learjet. This one, however, had been customized by Mossad. An operation some years back had required the airborne insertion of a handful of commandos deep inside Iran. Using a military transport had been out of the question, but some creative soul ventured that a business jet, ferrying between neutral countries on an overflight, might be just the ticket. The only problem was that the standard entry door of a Learjet 45 was not designed to be opened in flight. Not to be deterred, and in a modification the manufacturer would never have condoned, contract engineers replaced the original door with a much-hardened item. The end product had worked spectacularly over Iran. Today, Slaton hoped, it would work just as well.
The captain had given careful instructions on how to operate the door, and Slaton went through them to the letter. The instant the door cracked open a rush of wind noise swept through the cabin—they were flying at a relatively slow speed, but still nearly two hundred miles an hour. Everyone sleeping in back would be awake now, and Slaton imagined them peering around the curtain. He didn’t bother to check. He and Yosy alone would bear responsibility.
Once the door was fully open, Yosy shouted over the wind noise, “Should we say a few words?”
Slaton glanced at him, then down toward the dead terrorist at his feet. In that moment he could come up with no thought relating to faith. He could only think of a bus in Netanya, his little girl in the hospital. “How about, good riddance,” he offered.
With one good kick, the body edged partially out the door. The wind did the rest, seizing the upper torso and wrenching Ramzi Tayeb into the black night.
Always inclined to precision, Slaton had already done the math. From five thousand feet, it would take twelve seconds to reach terminal velocity. Twenty more to reach sea level. The rush of cold air was reason enough not to dwell on the thought. He ran the reverse steps to close the door. The wind noise was cut instantly and the cabin began to warm. Slaton picked up the intercom and informed the pilots that the door was secure. Moments later, he felt a bump in his ears as the pressurization system kicked back in.
“Well, that was easy,” Yosy said.
Slaton nodded. It had been easy, he thought. Easier than such a thing should ever be.
* * *
With the final act of the mission complete, Slaton and Yosy tried to wind down as they sped toward home. The Learjet had begun its service as an executive transport, delivering Israel’s high ministers and emissaries to vital meetings around the globe. After twenty years the aircraft had been handed down to Mossad, relegated to carrying equipment, teams of smelly operators, and captured terrorists to whatever shadowed fates awaited. Slaton couldn’t say with any authority, but he suspected this was the first time it had been used as a platform for a burial at sea.
Checkered history aside, the Lear’s interior had fallen to a muddled mix of utility and luxury. Aside from the entry door and aft airliner seats, a number of other modifications had been made. Slaton and Yosy took up residence mid-cabin in what remained of the jet’s glory days: a pair of plush but worn club chairs. On a table between them were two tumblers and a bottle of Macallan single malt Scotch—ever the spy, Yosy had unearthed it from deep in a galley cabinet.
While Slaton did the honors, Yosy said, “You think we’ll get in trouble?”
“For what?”
“The op today—it didn’t go down the way we sold it to the director.”
“The Tayeb brothers are gone, and we learned enough to shut down al-Qassam Front for a very long time. Trust me, Anton will get over it.”
Yosy reached into an equipment bag and removed an 8x10 photograph. “You want this?” he asked.
It was the photo from the frame in Vandenburg’s office—a very professional Photoshop of Slaton shaking hands with Luxembourg’s prime minister.
He shook his head. “I’m not exactly keeping a career scrapbook.”
Yosy crumpled the photo and launched it toward a nearby trash bin. He missed badly. “Speaking of career, I put in for London.”
“London? Why?”
“Seemed like a good career move. And I promised my wife I’d go somewhere that’s not dangerous.”
“Hope you get it. I hear the food’s outstanding.”
That earned a chuckle. They sipped their drinks for a time, although neither bothered to toast anything; it wasn’t that kind of occasion. More like exhaling after a long-held breath.
Slaton broke the silence as Yosy was pouring a second round. “Why did you do it?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Kill Moussa.”
Yosy took a long draw. “How did you figure it out?”
“Process of elimination. I didn’t do it, and I’m convinced Ramzi didn’t kill his brother. Anna said it wasn’t her, and I believe her. When she and I went out for a walk that night, there would have been plenty of time for you to go back.”
A nod.
“So … why?”
Yosy looked to his tumbler for an answer. “Do you really have to ask?”
It was the answer Slaton expected. Yosy was one of the few people in The Office who knew what had happened to his family. “It might have compromised the mission.”
“It didn’t.”
Slaton smiled thinly. “You’re starting to sound like me.”
“If our positions had been reversed … what would you have done?”
A nod of acceptance from Slaton. In the dimly lit cabin a steady flicker from the wing strobes snapshotted their silhouettes. The sound of air rushing from the overhead vents took the place of words. Clandestine operators were by nature introspective, but never more so than when stalked by the shadows of mortality. It was the one tail on earth no tradecraft could escape.
“There’s a difference, you know,” Yosy said. “Between us and them.”
Slaton met his gaze.
“They target innocents. We go after the killers.”
A bolt of raucous laughter shot from the aft cabin. Yosy snapped back the last of his drink, and said, “As for what happened to Moussa … I hope it helps.” He got up, took the half-full bottle in hand, and gathered more tumblers from the galley. He went aft to spread the cheer.
Slaton turned toward the window, stared into the cold blackness. I hope it helps. Could killing ever help? Slaton had heard it before, the standard rational for doing what they did. He wanted to believe it. And perhaps he did. Out of nowhere, Ramzi’s parting words played in his head: That’s who you are, is it not … one of Mossad’s assassins?
For nearly three years, Slaton had been working incessantly; training, planning, operating. He was so distracted by the day-to-day burdens of becoming what he was, he’d never bothered to put a label on it. Was that the specialty listed on his Mossad personnel folder?
Assassin? he wondered. Is that what I’ve become?
He pulled out his wallet and retrieved the photo he always carried. In a spray of light from the post-mission gathering behind, the forever smiles of Katya and Elise beamed up at him. And just like that, with the sureness of a rising sun, he felt a slow release. He would never see his wife and daughter again. But they would always be with him. And if he did his job, did it well, others like them would be saved.
Slaton carefully put the photo away, then got up and walked aft.
Back to his team.
Back to the living.
Also by Ward Larsen
Perfect Assassin
Assassin’s Game*
Assassin’s Silence*
Assassin’s Code*
Assassin’s Run
*
Assassin’s Revenge*
Cutting Edge*
Assassin’s Strike*
Assassin’s Dawn* (novella)
Assassin’s Edge* (forthcoming)
*Published by Forge Books
About the Author
WARD LARSEN is a USA Today bestselling author and six-time winner of the Florida Book Award. His work has been nominated for both the Edgar and Macavity Awards. A former US Air Force fighter pilot, Larsen flew more than twenty missions in Operation Desert Storm. He also served as a federal law enforcement officer and is a trained aircraft accident investigator. His first thriller, The Perfect Assassin, has been optioned for film by Amber Entertainment. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Also by Ward Larsen
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ASSASSIN’S DAWN. Copyright © 2021 by Ward Larsen. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.minotaurbooks.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-83205-4 (ebook)
Cover design by Russell Trakhtenberg
Cover photographs: woman crossing street © 2021 by Busà Photography / Getty Images; silhouette of a man © 2021 by beeboys/shutterstock.com
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: 2021
eISBN 9781250832054
