Operations Compromised

by Warren Conrad

  One day when Stryker entered town, he found the woman’s truck parked outside the Sidewinders Tavern. He pulled over and went inside. The woman was talking to several people at the bar, animatedly telling a story about a bear she had encountered on a hike. Stryker settled at a table near the rear of the tavern. “So the bear stood up, and it’s about six feet tall,” she said. “And it looks at me and says, ‘Sorry, I didn’t know it was your fish.’”

  The men around her, belatedly realizing she was telling a joke, broke into hearty guffaws. She was slim, about 5’ 6”, with short brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail. She was undeniably attractive, but there was something unusual about her. The way she moved, whether reaching for a bottle or sliding onto a barstool, produced a strong sense of control. Stryker sat and watched her throughout the evening.

  Shortly before midnight, he followed her from the tavern to a condo project. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and he would have concluded that she was simply the housekeeper, except for the graceful power of her every motion. Housekeepers did not move like that.

  From the condos, Stryker drove down a gravel road to Kaesar’s house and parked a quarter of a mile away. He hiked to the rear of a garage adjacent to the house. It did not have a security system, and he was able to pick the lock. Inside were ski machines, a gray Jeep Cherokee, and assorted bins and tools. In one corner stood a free-standing punching bag. Stryker had learned that Kaesar started boxing in high school and turned semi-pro until he was injured. Stryker wondered how much he had kept up his skills. He hardwired a GPS tracking device under the dash of the Cherokee and relocked the garage.

  Stryker returned to Berryville. The spring and summer passed slowly, and he did what he could to fill the hours. He worked on the house and barn until both were in better shape than they had ever been, and then he shifted his attention to the grounds and fences. In the evenings, he continued his research, although no additional leads surfaced and he remained convinced that Kaesar was his best link to discovering what had happened.

  Stryker had a friend who owed him a favor and was able to hack into Kaesar’s daily organizer. As expected, Kaesar booked a flight to Jackson Hole at the end of August, and Stryker traveled back to the town a few days ahead of Kaesar’s arrival. Stryker had purchased an older model pickup truck and stored it in Rawlins back in the spring, after obtaining a bill of sale with one of his false identities. He used it now to drive around town, dressed as a hiker.

  Kaesar’s plane was scheduled to arrive on a Sunday afternoon, and Stryker parked where he could view the passengers coming out of the terminal. The plane landed on time, and Kaesar soon climbed into a faded blue pickup truck. The driver was the same woman Stryker observed in the spring. He followed the truck toward Kaesar’s house and parked out of sight down the road. Shortly after, the blue truck drove past with only the woman inside. Stryker went back to a nearby campground for the night.

  For the next two days, Stryker tailed Kaesar as he ran errands around town, keeping his distance and using the GPS tracker attached to the Jeep when he risked being spotted. Both days, the lawyer drove into town in the afternoon and returned in the late evening. Very few vehicles traveled the gravel road that ended at Kaesar’s house, and it would be easy enough to shoot out one of the tires as Kaesar returned from town one evening. He could take Kaesar captive as he fixed the flat. There was a trailhead at the top of a mountain overlooking Kaesar’s place that would provide an ideal firing position.

  The next day, Stryker tailed Kaesar again, and as evening approached, Stryker drove to the trailhead. He hiked down the mountain to a spot overlooking the road. He set up and waited for Kaesar’s return. He chose a suppressed 9 mm pistol firing subsonic ammunition.

  Darkness fell, settling gradually over the treetops and then blanketing the hillsides. As dusk eased toward night, he detected a presence nearby. He had learned to trust his instincts in the field—they had certainly kept him alive enough times. He listened but heard nothing. He pulled on his night vision and crept up the hill toward the trailhead. Only the chirrup of crickets disturbed the stillness. Near the summit, he circled the area where he parked his truck.

  After about thirty feet, he sensed movement and whirled to glimpse a blade slicing toward him. He jerked away, and the knife barely missed his neck and slashed across his forearm instead. Stryker pivoted and kicked, but the dark figure dodged to the side and rushed forward with a stab toward his temple. He ducked under the blade and lunged in close, wrapping his arm around his attacker’s throat in a vise-like grip that would kill in seconds. As he bore down hard and began to twist, he felt the point of a blade against his own throat. He forced himself to be still, adrenaline pumping through him. “What do you want?”

  A woman’s voice emerged, a choked whisper. He relaxed his grip a touch. “Kaesar.”

  “What do you want with Kaesar?”

  “I don’t want you to kill him.”

  He recognized her voice. She was the woman from the tavern.

  Chapter 5

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  August 2009

  He tried to turn his head to better see her face, but she kept the knife pressed firmly just over his jugular. “What makes you think I’m going to kill him?”

  “Release me, and we can discuss it.”

  Stryker eased up the tension on her throat, and the knife gradually withdrew as he did. As they stepped apart, both drew guns and found themselves still in a standoff. He got his first good look at her face and confirmed that it was the woman he had followed, the one who seemed to work for Kaesar.

  Something about the speed of her movements made him sure that a gunfight would not end well. His arm was afire with pain, blood running down it, although he could not tell how deep the wound was. Better to withdraw. He backed away downhill. She must have had the same idea because she moved in the opposite direction.

  He drove to a drug store in town and put on a long-sleeved shirt to cover the blood before going in. He purchased hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic cream, suture tape, liquid suture, and bandages, along with several other items so he would appear to be shopping for supplies. At a nearby motel, he registered for one night using a fake driver’s license.

  Stryker sat on an unfamiliar bed in a random room and cleaned off blood, and it seemed to him just like old times. Things would go as planned right up until everything went to hell. He had to find out about this woman and decide if Kaesar needed to be put on hold. What was her connection to him?

  The next day Stryker left the motel just as the sun lit up the tree line with an orange glow. He packed his gear at the campground for a quick exit if needed. He wondered if the woman had tracked him or discovered his whereabouts, and he remained alert throughout the day, but only campers and hikers passed near. Around five o’clock, he went back to the tavern where he had seen her before. He was on his second beer when she walked through the door and locked eyes with him. She approached his table and sat across from him. Surely she would not attempt to kill him in public.

  “That was a pretty sharp knife,” he said. “You might want to be careful with it.”

  “Why? It wasn’t at my throat.”

  He was certainly not going to argue that point. Instead, he asked if she wanted a drink. “Just water for now.”

  Stryker waited until the waiter had left. “Tell me about Kaesar.”

  She watched him, one hand rested on the table and the other out of sight in her lap. “I spotted you following us from the airport. That wasn’t the first time. I saw you last spring when you followed me home. Looking for a date?”

  “Just checking out the local sights.”

  “When I realized you were staking out Kaesar’s house, I assumed you were going to kill him. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “We’re obviously both interested in the same man.”

  “Yes.” Her water arrived, and they both sat silent, waiting again until they were alone. “I don’t sense any fondness for the
man,” Stryker said. “So you must need him for something.”

  “Information.”

  “What kind?”

  She spread into a pretty smile. “The kind above your pay grade.”

  “Did I mention I have a hefty inheritance pension?”

  She gave a short laugh and spun the paper coaster with an easy flick of her fingers. Each motion was so graceful, so focused.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jean. You?”

  “J. C.”

  “Uh huh.” That disbelieving smile again.

  He watched her closely. The only place he had encountered her level of knife fighting skill was with elite military forces. What was her connection? Where had she been trained? He said he was glad to meet her in Arabic, and as soon as the first words were out of his mouth, he registered the understanding in her eyes. She didn’t have to say anything. The meeting changed.

  “I’m getting hungry, so why don’t we continue our conversation at a restaurant where the food’s better?”

  She watched him a moment longer, those green eyes seeming to search for something, but at last she nodded. Stryker followed her in his truck to a small cafe’ close to the airport and away from the more frequented places in town. They picked a table in the rear with no other diners nearby. There were only two other couples in the entire place.

  They ordered the day’s special without bothering to look at a menu, and Stryker waited for her to begin the conversation, but she never did. There was a good chance she already had a file on him, and either way, he knew he had to give information to get it. He told her about his time in the military and his assignments in Iraq and Afghanistan. He described his last mission, leaving out detailed specifics that were classified, and told her he was a Special Forces soldier who had returned home to track down an information leak.

  “So you’ve gone rogue, fighting your own private war?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Why the interest in Kaesar?”

  He mentioned his suspicions of terrorist financing without going into much detail. “Whatever he’s got his hands into, it’s not good.”

  Their food arrived—meatloaf—and he waited as she bowed her head and murmured a prayer. She at last brought both hands above the table, but one of them easily scooped up her knife and twirled it lightly between her fingers. She caught him watching, flashed that ready smile again, and set to slicing her food.

  “OK,” he said. “Your turn.”

  She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and appeared to reach a decision. “My name’s not really Jean.”

  “This is me not being surprised.”

  “It’s Rachel Cohen. I was born in Argentina, and I work for the Mossad.”

  He was surprised, though it didn’t show. He ate his dinner and listened, and after she watched for his reaction, she continued.

  “I need information from dear Herman about some clients of his who have been funding attacks on Israelis. In particular, we’re trying to track down an unidentified Iranian terrorist we believe is linked to Kaesar. I don’t really care what you do with the man—kill him if you want—but not until I get the information I need.”

  He nodded. “I need to talk to him too.”

  “My team plans to take Kaesar to a secure location and interrogate him. After that, he’s going to disappear, trust me.”

  “Our plans don’t have to conflict with each other.”

  She pointed the knife at him but not threateningly. “If you help us with this rather than getting in our way, I’ll make sure you get the chance to talk to him. Time’s running out for my team to get what we need. You need information, even more than Kaesar has. Work with me on this, and I can introduce you to others in Israel who might be able to fill in some of your gaps.”

  Israeli Intelligence was some of the best in the world. He nodded and extended his hand across the table. She shook it, but her other hand kept the knife firmly in its grip.

  They agreed to capture Kaesar the following night, with a similar approach to what Stryker had planned on his own. He would handle the take-down and leave Kaesar for the Mossad agents, who planned to give him a sedative and drive him to a cabin twenty miles away. Rachel would meet with Stryker the next day and take him to Kaesar to obtain the information he needed. After that, Stryker would never know the final resting place for Herman Kaesar—only that he disappeared. They set a time and place to meet and parted ways to sleep.

  When night came again, it was black as pitch with steady rain and no visible moon due to heavy cloud cover. Stryker assumed his shooting position once more, and just before midnight, he heard a vehicle approaching. The Jeep came into sight, traveling no more than twenty miles per hour due to the weather. Stryker took aim and fired a shot muffled by his suppressor. The punctured tire went flat quickly, and Kaesar pulled to the side of the road.

  Stryker waited as Kaesar began changing the tire. With his target’s attention occupied, Stryker stepped up softly behind Kaesar and used a choke hold rendering him unconscious a few seconds later. After moving Kaesar into the woods about twenty yards, he finished putting the full-size spare tire on the Jeep and drove it to Kaesar’s garage. He removed the GPS tracking device, which he took along with the flat tire and rim. He wore gloves and a cap throughout.

  Stryker returned to his shooting position and found the sled Rachel left for him. He used it to haul the tire and his gear up the trail to his truck. His footprints would disappear with the rain. He took the tire several miles down the road to a trash dumpster and dropped off the rim close to an auto garage. Stryker returned to camp and settled in for the night.

  Rachel had agreed to meet at the tavern at 5:00 the next evening. He got there a little early, but by 6:00, Rachel still had not arrived. He alternated between watching the front door and the parking lot through the window, waiting to see her blue pickup. Eventually he ate dinner. He had no way to make contact. As the hours passed, he wondered if she had been planning to use and betray him all along. Perhaps she was already gone. Kaesar certainly was.

  Chapter 6

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  August 2009

  The vehicle kept its distance, but Stryker had the feeling he was being followed. About ten miles outside of Rawlins, he came to an abandoned service station. The lot appeared vacant, and Stryker made a slow turn in so as not to stir up dust. He pulled to the back of the station, completely hidden from the highway, and pulled out a pair of binoculars.

  He had left Jackson Hole after two days of lying low and watching for any sign of Rachel or Kaesar. He felt angry with himself, and worse, he now had no way to get the needed information. He was headed to Rawlins to trade in the truck, change his appearance, and return to Jackson Hole. Rachel might still be in the area but watching for him. He had to be careful.

  Stryker had been trained never to leave loose ends, and now he had become one himself.

  He watched from behind the service station, and within minutes a white pickup carrying two men passed on the highway. The truck bed held no camping equipment, tents, or anything else. Peering through the binoculars, Stryker saw flannel shirts, dark sunglasses, and ear pieces. Just businessmen on vacation, perhaps, but visiting campers would have tents and gear. The shirts looked as if they had been purchased the day before, not the dirty, rugged wear of local hikers.

  Stryker pulled back onto the highway and followed the truck, staying out of sight. In Rawlins, the men parked behind the truck stop café, next to a big rig with few other cars around it. Stryker parked near the Old Bank and walked to the café. He slipped in, found an empty booth, and ordered coffee and eggs. The men sat across the restaurant. After watching them, he guessed they were part of Rachel’s Israeli team.

  He hurriedly finished his eggs, downed his coffee, and left through the front door. He stepped around the side of the big rig next to their truck and crawled underneath it. A few minutes later the men appeared.

  “He’ll show,” one of
them said. “Tell her to be patient.”

  Stryker swept the first man’s legs, reaching out as he fell to grab his collar and bring the back of his head against the concrete. He kicked hard as the second man turned and heard a crack as he fractured the man’s kneecap. As the man fell to his side, Stryker leaned out, his gun aimed at the man’s face.

  “Congratulations,” Stryker said. “You found me.”

  The man gritted his teeth through the pain. He breathed out sharply, looking at his unconscious partner and back to Stryker. “Listen, don’t be stupid.”

  “The two of you have got that covered. Where’s Rachel? I need to speak with her.”

  “Rachel?” The man’s face was blank. Too blank.

  Stryker crawled fully out from under the rig, keeping his gun steady. “Maybe you’re here for Kaesar?”

  The man didn’t respond, but he blinked—recognition flicking through his eyes first—and Stryker had his answer. He hauled the man to his feet and half-marched, half-dragged him around the side of the truck, took his keys, and checked in the glove box. Inside he found two Glock 9 mm pistols, zip ties, and two cell phones. Hurrying, before someone noticed them, Stryker bound the man’s hands behind his back with a zip tie, checked him for weapons, and put him in the back seat. He repeated this with the unconscious man.

  Stryker climbed into the front and dialed the last call made from both phones. The first phone dialed and continued to ring. The second phone picked up on the third ring, though no one spoke.

  “Rachel, I have your team,” Stryker said. “I suggest you start explaining because my patience is running thin.”

  There was a short pause. “Where are you?”

  “Rawlins.”