Lady Death

by Brian Drake

  She kissed him hard and pressed his head into the mattress. He couldn’t move and her lock on his mouth was too much. He wrenched his arms free and pushed her away.

  “Hey!”

  “You still kiss like a limpet mine.”

  “You say the sweetest things.”

  “Get your clothes off.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

  “You don’t get the whisker biscuit so easy.”

  “The what?”

  She laughed and tried to kiss him again. He turned his head. She bit his ear instead. He let out a cry and shoved her. She rolled away and landed beside him with her head propped on her hand.

  “Still think you’re giving orders?”

  He grabbed her shoulder and forced her onto her stomach and delivered another solid smack on her plump behind.

  “Hey!”

  “You bit my ear.”

  “It was there!”

  Another smack.

  “Ouch!”

  “It’s big enough you’d think it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “You ass!”

  “No, yours.”

  She lunged at him, almost shoving him off the edge of the bed. She let up to let him scoot back, and he grabbed her again and pushed her onto her back. This time he straddled her.

  “Now what, hot shot?” she said. Her chest rose and fell under her heavy breathing. Her lips were wet.

  Raven grabbed for the button and zipper on her jeans. She didn’t help. He tugged to get her pants down. She laughed.

  “Lift your butt up.”

  “No.”

  “Dammit, Watson!”

  She lifted her rear end and he pulled off the jeans with her underwear and then she helped him get the rest of her clothes off and his too.

  5

  Omar Talman rolled back the cuffs of his sweater. The sleeves were too long. The rest of the sweater was also too big, but the cuffs bothered him more. He didn’t want anything getting in the way of his gun hand should the need arise. At least the sweater was long enough to cover the selective-fire Glock 18C holstered behind his back.

  He watched Tanya Jafari in the mirror. She fussed with the last of her luggage, struggling with a zipper, cursing. Omar went to help. She stepped back with another curse but Omar pulled the zipper closed. Then he reached out an arm and drew her to him. She leaned on his shoulder and sobbed.

  News of her father’s death in Berlin had reached them quickly. The “disappearance” of Hannah had accompanied the report. Tanya knew the truth. Hannah had defected to the Americans and the Americans had killed her father.

  “We can mourn later,” Tanya had said after the phone call. “Now we need to get ready to get out of Paris.”

  But a day later, when they had to pack and leave, she obviously couldn’t keep her emotions at bay.

  She sobbed without much noise and Omar said nothing. There were no words necessary. Anything he said wouldn’t help.

  With a final sob, she pulled away. Tanya wiped her eyes. “I’m okay,” she said.

  “I know.”

  A knock at the door. Tanya ducked into the bathroom. Omar answered. Sila Kaymak, the Turkish assassin who had flown them out of Virginia, entered. He carried his two suitcases.

  “All set?”

  “Almost.”

  The toilet flushed. Tanya exited the bathroom. Her face was still wet from where she’d missed drying, but she no longer looked upset.

  “Is the car ready?” she said.

  “It’s prepared,” Kaymak said.

  Tanya checked out of the room via the television, clicking through selections with the remote to mark the end of their stay. Kaymak took the lead as they departed. A large black BMW 740Li waited in the hotel parking lot. The trio loaded their luggage in the trunk. Kaymak took the wheel. Tanya and Omar sat in the back.

  “Where to?” Kaymak said as he left the hotel property and merged into traffic.

  Tanya gave him directions. She’d been keeping their departure point a secret until today. They were heading for a port on the edge of the Seine. A yacht waited for them. She explained they would board the yacht, follow the Seine to the English Channel, and meet a ship. The ship would take them the rest of the way to the Islamic Union’s island compound.

  From the compound, Tanya would wait for the results of Operation Triangle.

  Her assets should already be in place. They knew their orders. They’d planned the operation to include a communications blackout. If the mercenaries faced any issues, they were on their own to solve the problems or abort.

  Very soon she’d have her revenge. Not only for her husband, Ahmad, but Francesca and her husband, Tamal. And now her father too.

  Tanya was glad to let Sila Kaymak do the driving. Paris traffic infuriated her. She liked the city, but the congestion of people, cars, and buildings took the joy away after a long day. It was as if the city designers had built a town full of buildings and other structures, suddenly remembered they needed roads, too, and cut narrow streets through the mass of buildings. Job done. Time for wine. Typical French bullshit.

  She grabbed Omar’s hand and squeezed. He squeezed back and offered a smile. She had to force her face to comply, but she smiled too. They held each other’s eyes a moment. Omar had only required real sleep and real food to return to “normal” and they’d made up for lost time. Before the devastating phone call. But at least they’d had a proper reunion before reality intruded once again.

  The drive took longer than she wanted, but soon Sila turned onto the Quai Andrei Citroen. She told him to follow the road all the way to Port de Javel Bas. The Seine sat off to their right side. Plenty of boat traffic crowded the waterway. Tanya shook her head. More congestion. More delays.

  But they’d be out of France and on their way soon.

  “We have a tail,” Sila Kayak announced.

  Omar Talman didn’t look back. He leaned forward to pull the Glock 18C from behind his back. He held the gun low with his booger hook off the bang switch.

  Tanya looked back. She said, “Which vehicle?”

  “Blue van has stayed with us since the hotel.”

  “You’re only telling me now?” she said.

  “I wasn’t sure till now.”

  Omar turned to look. He spotted the van four cars back in one of the other lanes. He sat forward. Tanya cursed and twisted back too.

  “Your sister?” Omar said.

  “I doubt it. She knew nothing.”

  “Our people in Syria?”

  “The CIA might have grabbed somebody, yeah.”

  Sila Kaymak said, “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Omar looked around. Seine on one side, the waterway full, the wharf crowded with workers and tourists.

  Opposite side. More buildings. Restaurants, shops, pedestrians. The road. Nothing but traffic.

  “We’re in a box,” Omar said.

  “I know, honey.”

  Sila Kaymak said, “See the red brick buildings ahead?”

  Tanya and Omar craned their necks to see. “What about them?” Tanya said.

  “There’s an alley in between we might find useful.”

  “Go.”

  Omar said, “They’ll want us alive.”

  “It’s our job to make sure they don’t succeed, Omar.”

  From her purse, Tanya pulled out her own weapon. She racked the slide on the CZ 75B 9mm and flicked up the safety.

  Sila Kaymak had the heavy firepower. Hidden in his smaller suitcase was a Swiss B&T APC9 submachine gun.

  Omar glanced at Tanya. A grin pulled at the corners of her mouth. She licked her lips. He patted her leg. She took a deep breath. “Leave none of them alive,” she said.

  Traffic moved at a moderate pace. Sila swung into the left lane for the turn into the alley between the two red brick buildings. Signs out front identified the businesses, but nobody in the car paid attention. They needed a place to fight.

  Sila cut
left, crossing the opposing lane, and steered into the alley. The BMW’s engine rumbled as he pressed the accelerator, then hit the brakes. The car slowed to a stop in the middle of the alley.

  “Out!” Tanya shouted.

  Omar exited first. They had plenty of space between the car and either side of the buildings. Stacked pallets and dumpsters provided cover and concealment. Omar ran to a dumpster and dropped to one knee.

  Tanya stayed by the car. It took a moment for Sila to get the APC9 from his suitcase, and he left the case open on the passenger seat. He moved to the hood of the BMW.

  The surveillance van entered the alley and the tires screeched as the driver stopped. Tanya opened fire with her CZ 75. The 9mm pistol spat flame. She traced a line of slugs into the windshield. The man in the passenger seat jerked with each hit. A burst from Omar’s full auto Glock blew the face off the driver.

  Tanya ran ahead. Omar charged after her with Sila bringing up the rear. She reached the van first, smashing out the passenger window. Climbing onto the running board, she stretched her hand through, screaming as she fired more rounds. The CZ’s action locked open, empty. Sila grabbed the back of her shirt, pulled her away, and assumed her place. He fired the APC9 into the rear, emptying the magazine in seconds.

  Omar wrenched open the side door of the van when the B&T fell silent. There was no need for more shooting. Two dead in front, three dead in back. The three in back each wore handcuffs and pistols on their belts. They’d indeed meant to capture him and Tanya alive.

  Tanya shouted, “Come on!”

  They ran back to the BMW. Sila threw the car into drive and powered along the remaining length of the alley to the street ahead.

  Omar, out of habit, reloaded his weapon, but he was the only one to do so.

  “Don’t go back to the quai right away,” Tanya advised Sila. “Go right and let’s work our way back.”

  “Will the yacht wait?” Omar said.

  “They’ll wait,” she told him.

  Sila reached the street and followed directions. Traffic was lighter so he drove faster.

  Tanya turned to Omar. She didn’t hide her grin. Her eyes were alight with excitement.

  “The CIA will get the message,” she said. “They can’t stop me. They can’t stop us.”

  “Indeed, they will,” Omar said.

  “And then we will send a bigger message,” she added, “when we wipe out their team in Syria.”

  Omar only nodded.

  “I want the other loose ends eliminated too.”

  “Stathoti and Horn?”

  “Stathoti yes,” she said. “Leave Horn. His men are carrying out Operation Triangle. We need him. Stathoti is replaceable.”

  Omar Talman said nothing more. He wanted out of Paris. He wanted to be on the open sea where the Americans couldn’t find them. And once they reached the island compound, they’d be untouchable.

  At CIA headquarters, Deputy Director of Operations Christopher Fisher entered the conference room. His number two, Layla McCarthy, followed. Neither looked happy about the urgent summons. Clark Wilson and Paul Heinrich were already waiting.

  “What happened?” Fisher said. He didn’t bother to sit down. Layla McCarthy sat and rested her arms on the table.

  Heinrich used a laptop to put pictures on the big screen wall monitor. Police photos of the carnage in an alley in Paris, the shot-up van front and center. Other pictures showed the carnage within.

  Wilson said, “Joe Hayden and his crew in Syria have been busy interrogating the two Islamic Union suspects they captured a few days ago. They learned Tanya and Omar Talman were in Paris. We sent a crew to grab them. The pictures tell the rest.”

  “Where did she go from here?”

  “We don’t know,” Wilson said. “They were traveling along the Seine, so we figure they met a boat.”

  “With all the traffic there,” McCarthy said, “tracing which boat she’s on won’t be easy.”

  “And it’s a private craft anyway,” Fisher said. “There won’t be a record of departure.” He began to pace. This was not the news he wanted.

  He stopped with his hands on his hips and turned to Wilson. “Where’s Sam Raven?”

  “On his way to Greece.”

  “The gun lead?”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I inform him about this?”

  Fisher said no.

  6

  Stathoti Logistics occupied warehouse and office space at one of the many ports in Piraeus. A docking area behind the warehouse gave access to the Saronic Gulf and the Aegean Sea.

  Raven and Misty sat in a surveillance van down the street from the Stathoti offices. The van’s concealed rooftop cameras focused on the front gate and parking lot. The automatic gate was part of the fencing surrounding the property. It was still open as the clock ticked past six p.m. Two cars sat near the front door of the building.

  Misty sat in the back of the van in front of two computer monitors and a keyboard. One monitor showed the parked cars. The second monitor was linked via satellite to MI6 and Interpol databases.

  Raven stood behind Misty. He fastened his shoulder harness and slid the Nighthawk Custom .45 auto into the holster. Spare magazines rode under his right arm. He pulled on a long jacket to cover the rig.

  They’d already run the plates on the cars to see who they belonged to. Stathoti owned the silver four-door Lexus. The Honda sitting next to it belonged to his assistant manager, Amanda Liviakis.

  “Do we wait for the woman to leave?” Misty said.

  Raven put his hands on his hips and watched the monitor over her shoulders. “If she leaves first, yeah.”

  “He won’t leave her behind to lock up,” Misty said. “If he’s working on any of his illegal activities after-hours—”

  “I’ll take that bet,” Raven said. “Besides we don’t want any witnesses.”

  Raven sat down next to Misty. The interior felt cramped, the roof low, and the glow of the monitors hurt his eyes. Misty had turned down the brightness level of both, but their glow still filled the space. The overhead light wasn’t enough to cut down the glare.

  They sat without talking for at least an hour. Then a tall woman with long black hair exited. She slid into the Honda and drove away.

  “Exit the assistant manager,” Raven said.

  They waited ten more minutes. Stathoti did not follow.

  Misty left the monitors and climbed behind the wheel. They wanted the van close for when they grabbed Stathoti and chucked him in the back.

  “Let’s pull up and make this quick,” Raven said.

  Misty started the motor. Raven said, “Wait.”

  “I see it,” she called back.

  A third car drove through the open gate. The driver turned the vehicle around. He backed into the slot vacated by the assistant manager’s Honda.

  Misty ran back to the console and pressed two buttons on the keyboard. The roof-mounted camera took a snapshot of the new car’s license plate. The picture appeared on the second monitor. She used the mouse to drag the picture into the search box of the MI6 database.

  “Don’t bother, it’s a rental,” Raven said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Gut.”

  Misty tapped the Enter key and ran the search anyway.

  A lone man exited the vehicle. He was bulky with a thick mop of hair and wore a long jacket. He looked around as he eased the door shut but didn’t close it all the way. The whites of his eyes stood out against dark skin.

  “Misty—”

  “You’re right, it’s a rental.”

  “Paid for by John Smith, right?”

  “Edward Lewis.”

  “He doesn’t look like a Lewis.”

  The man moved to the building entrance. He pulled on the door handle. The door didn’t budge. The man removed something from a pocket of his coat and bent toward the lock.

  “We gotta get in there,” Misty said.

  She grabbed the compact SIG Sauer P229 pistol from her belt
and racked the slide. They exited through the back doors. Raven wondered if they’d brought enough firepower.

  Stavros Stathoti hated working late.

  But doing so was the only way to keep his legitimate operations going. The illegitimate took up most of the day. Done in secret, of course.

  He wasn’t a tall man. He wasn’t a thin one, either. His hard-packed 280 pounds made him look like an upright bulldog. His puffy face almost swallowed his eyes.

  His cramped office sat adjacent to a conference room with an open doorway between them. Another doorway in front of him led to the hallway where a left turn took him to the warehouse, front desk to the right. The walls needed a coat of paint, and the carpet had worn out a decade ago. Stathoti’s priorities always lay elsewhere. The needed interior improvements remained on the bottom of the to-do list.

  He sat at his desk filing paperwork for shipments going out over the coming days. The desk held several stacks of pink and yellow forms. He preferred to work in a quiet environment with no radio or television. Only the scratching of his pen on paper and his labored breathing filled the silence.

  Buried under a small stack of forms on his right was his Dell laptop. The computer never left his side. Its hard drive contained details on his illicit affairs.

  The front door squeaked open.

  Stathoti stopped scribbling. He looked up. He could not see the front desk area from where he sat. He called out, “Amanda?”

  No answer.

  He scooted back from the desk and stood. As he stepped around his desk, a man moved through the conference room to his office. He held a suppressed pistol in his hand. Stathoti froze. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to shout but nothing came out. The gunman lifted his pistol to arm’s length and fired twice. The slugs slammed into Stathoti’s big chest. A third shot smacked through his forehead. Stathoti fell over. His heavy body hit the ground with a thud.

  The gunman slipped his gun back under his jacket.

  From another pocket of his jacket the killer extracted a small thermite grenade. He pulled the pin and set the grenade on the cluttered desk.