by S L Shelton
The bartender shot him a confused look and then quickly realized he could get double payment if he played it right. “Beş,” he replied, holding up five fingers.
Nick pulled some bills out of his pocket and reached across the bar, knocking a plate of fried vegetables to the floor. While the bartender’s and Ukil’s attention was on the disturbance, Nick squeezed a small plastic vial into Ukil’s drink.
“Bağışlayın. Məni bağışlayın,” Nick exclaimed, apologizing profusely. He quickly turned and walked toward the exit feigning embarrassment. On the way out, he put his hand over what appeared to be a wad of used chewing gum and pulled it from the door trim—the surveillance camera he had placed when he came in three hours earlier.
“I’m across the street,” Charlotte said into his ear as Nick turned the corner away from her.
“Go ’round back,” he muttered, picking up his pace and watched as she started the van.
By the time he had walked to the back of the bar, she had driven around the block and was pulling up to him in the broad alleyway.
“What now?” she asked through the open window of the van as she pulled to a halt.
Nick leaned against the driver’s side door and crossed his arms. “Just a few more seconds now,” he said with a grin.
Suddenly, the back door burst open and Ukil stumbled out, vomiting as he went. He leaned against the wall, hunching his shoulders and doubling over as he continued to violently expel the contents of his stomach.
Nick jogged up to him and placed a concerned hand on his shoulder. “Necəsən?” Nick asked, inquiring how he was.
“Pis,” Ukil replied after gasping for breath. He waved his hand at Nick and nodded that he was okay. “Təşəkkür edirəm,” he grated through a gurgle, thanking him but continuing to wave him away.
“Buyur,” Nick replied before striking him at the base of his skull with the butt of his pistol. Ukil dropped to the ground like a sack of stones.
“Open the door,” Nick said in a raspy hiss as he picked Ukil up and dragged him to the van. The door slid open as Nick tossed Ukil’s limp form inside with a thud.
“Go!” Nick ordered as he pulled the door closed behind him. The van lurched forward and began winding through the streets rapidly. Nick watched out the back window to see if Ukil’s bodyguards would pop through the door. None did.
“We’re clear,” Nick muttered. “You can slow down.”
“How’d you get him to come out back to puke?” Charlotte asked as she turned onto another street at a more discreet speed.
“I locked the bathroom door on my way out,” Nick said as he zip-cuffed Ukil. “He didn’t have much choice.”
“Nice,” she mumbled.
Nick pulled Ukil’s phone out of his pocket and took the back off, before replacing the battery with one from a bag on the floor.
“Uhhh,” Ukil moaned as Nick stuffed the phone back into his pocket. “Mə?nə kömək edə bilərsiniz? Mən özümü pis hiss edirəm.”
“What’d he say?” Charlotte asked.
“He asked for help, said he feels bad,” Nick muttered with a satisfied grin.
“You hit him too hard.”
Nick grunted in amusement.
Ukil shook his head and began looking around, hearing the woman’s voice speaking in English.
“What’s going on?” he asked with a thick Turkish accent, still dazed. Then his gaze came to rest on Nick. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”
Nick grinned. “Sorry for the rough introduction, mate,” he said, sporting an authentic-sounding South African accent. “But we needed to talk to you.”
“I’ll give you my phone number,” Ukil responded, trying to sit up. Nick gave him an arm to lean against so he could get into a seated position.
“I’ll take you up on that,” Nick replied with a grin. “But we can start with a face-to-face if you don’t mind.”
“Who are you?” Ukil asked with a slightly disgusted tone, still shaking off the cobwebs in his head.
“Jason Roby,” Nick replied. “Just a guy looking for a hook-up.”
Ukil nodded with a disbelieving glare on his face. “Sure,” he said, distrust oozing from him.
“I’m sorry,” Nick said as he motioned for Ukil to show him his hands. “You’re a popular fellow with al-Qaida… This is their town, and I needed to make sure our meeting was private.”
Nick pulled the weapon from under Ukil’s jacket before reaching behind him and snipping the zip cuffs. Ukil immediately rubbed his wrists before putting his hand to the back of his head, grimacing after touching the spot where Nick had hit him.
“What do you want?” Ukil asked with fresh agitation as Nick popped the magazine out of Ukil’s Walther and ejected the round from the barrel.
“Like I said—I’m a business man who needs a hook-up…a private meeting,” he replied as he tossed the weapon and ammunition into a box next to Charlotte. She pulled off the main road and into an industrial area at the edge of town.
“Don’t you have a business card?” Ukil asked sarcastically. “I have a phone, you know. It’s not polite to poison people and knock them unconscious.”
“I’ve got business here too, and it wouldn’t do if al-Qaida saw me talking to you. They might put a price on my head as well,” Nick replied with a crooked grin. “Besides, I’m not one for subtle introductions. They aren’t as memorable.”
“Don’t I know it,” Charlotte quipped with a matching accent as she pulled the van to a halt behind an abandoned factory.
Ukil grunted dismissively.
“What’d you do to piss ‘em off so bad anyway?” Nick asked, already knowing that Ukil had ran afoul of al-Qaida by supplying weapons to both sides in a tribal dispute. Casualties were high because neither side had expected the other to have upgraded weapons. The victors—AQAC, the regional al-Qaida affiliate—didn't waste any time tracking down the source of their enemy's weapons. They were none too happy to discover it had been the same dealer who had sold them their own upgraded weapons systems.
“It’s a long story,” Ukil muttered in reply.
Nick put his hands up, bowing out of the question. “Ain’t none of my business. But it sure as shit makes it hard to get to you for a chat.”
“What’s this about?” Ukil asked, still rubbing his head.
“I need some weapons,” Nick said plainly.
“They sell weapons at the bazaar,” he replied dismissively and then felt his pockets for anything that might be missing.
“Not the kind I’m looking for. I need MANPADS,” Nick said, referring to shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles—a weapon that could allow a single soldier to destroy a plane in flight.
Ukil looked at him suspiciously. “The Chinese have lots of cheap shoulder-fired rockets,” he said. “Why would you go to the trouble of abducting me for something like that?”
Nick smiled. “I need Igla-S systems, with the Strelets launcher arrays,” he replied, referring to a Russian-built platform that linked several shoulder fired-rockets into a larger automated firing array. “Not something you pick up at the local bazaar.”
Ukil raised his eyebrow. “Those are hard to get,” he said, suddenly showing interest in what Nick had to say.
“The way we heard it, you have an in on some high-end Russian systems,” Nick said. “If we heard wrong, we can hook up with Jovanovich. I know he’s got them.”
“Jovanovich is dead,” Ukil said plainly, unable to hide a sly smile. “Crashed his cargo plane in the Czech Republic a few months ago.”
“What?!” Nick responded incredulously, with sincere-sounding surprise in his tone. “How’ve I not heard about this?”
Ukil shrugged as his eyebrows rose on his forehead. “Maybe you aren’t as connected as you think you are,” Ukil joked. “The U.S. and Russians have been keeping it pretty hush-hush, though. I guess you have to know people to get information like that.”
Nick stared at him suspiciously. �
�Twelve Strelets platforms and enough Igla systems for maximum configuration,” Nick said finally.
Ukil whistled. “Very expensive.”
“Can you deliver?” Nick asked, sounding bored by the price-inflation tactic.
“I can,” Ukil said, turning his head as if to recall some detail. “But I can tell you, it won’t be easy, fast, or cheap.”
“I expected as much,” Nick replied. “I just need your assurance you can get them. Not one unit short.”
“If you give me time, I can do it,” Ukil said.
“I don’t have a lot of that either,” Nick urged. “But if you can have them in a week, I’d be willing to throw in an extra ten percent to cover the damage I did to your skull.”
“Oh, I’ll make sure you pay for that,” Ukil replied with a crooked grin. “How do I contact you?”
Nick handed him a business card with the name of a holding company in Dubai printed on it.
“The number is on the back of the card,” Nick said. “Leave a message there and they’ll make sure I get it.”
Suddenly, the van was peppered by automatic weapon fire. The loud clack of AK 47s could be heard from all around.
“What is this?” Ukil said, dropping to the floor of the van.
“I don’t know,” Nick replied as he pulled an MP5 from a box on the floor and then poked his head up. “Shit! It’s your friends from al-Qaida!”
The front window of the van exploded into shards, and Charlotte dropped across the steering wheel.
“Char!” Nick screamed as he reached his fingers up to touch her neck. “Shit!”
“You have to save me,” Ukil hissed. “These guys don’t want to talk, they want to kill me.”
“They just killed my partner!” Nick screamed at him angrily.
“Please,” Ukil pleaded. “I’ll sell you the platforms at my cost if you get me out of here.”
Nick looked at Charlotte as an angry glare swept over his face. “Bad business,” Nick sneered as he grabbed Ukil by the arm. “Come on!”
He kicked the back door open, firing out the back before hopping down, dragging Ukil with him. Ukil resisted at first, obviously thinking he was about to be handed over to the attackers. But Nick instead raised his rifle at the approaching men in tribal dress and fired short bursts at one then another.
“Please. I’ll do anything,” Ukil said as the pair kneeled on the ground to take up a defensive position. “My gun!” he yelled and jerked his arm to go back to the van.
Nick grabbed his arm. “We’re moving,” he yelled as he fired and dragged Ukil toward the factory.
From around the corner, two men approached, firing their AK 47s at Nick and Ukil as they fled. Nick slapped in a fresh magazine and fired a heavy spray of automatic in the direction of the approaching men—one of them went down to the ground.
“Please,” Ukil whimpered. “I’ll do anything.”
“You can start by shutting the fuck up!” Nick yelled between shots, sticking with his South African accent. “Get into the warehouse.”
Ukil pressed his back against the building as Nick covered his retreat and shoved him toward a door.
“You owe me big time,” Nick said hastily as he backed toward their exit.
“Yes,” Ukil blurted as Nick pushed him along. “You will have your weapons and at my cost. Just get me out of here.”
“Call that number when you have them. If I don’t make it out of here, someone else will make the payment.” Nick’s tone was demanding as he released Ukil’s arm and shoved him toward the door.
Just then, an attacker charged the pair, firing as he ran. Nick squeezed the trigger, but the last round had been spent. He dropped the empty rifle, pulled his P229 and fired directly into the man’s chest, sending him to the ground.
“Go!” Nick yelled over his shoulder.
“Good luck, my friend—thank you,” Ukil exclaimed as he disappeared through the door and ran.
Two more men appeared from behind the surveillance van and began firing their weapons. Nick fired and then looked back through the door, seeing Ukil exiting the opposite side of the building before running across the parking lot on the other side.
The attackers began firing into the air. Nick turned toward them and looked down at the man he had shot in the chest.
The man jumped up and shoved Nick, grabbing the gun from his hand.
“Shhhhh!” Nick hissed quickly, looking back over his shoulder to make sure Ukil was out of sight.
The attacker pulled the slide back, ejecting a single bullet, before catching it in the air and holding it up to examine.
“Really, Nick?! A .357?” the man moaned through a sneer.
“Hey, Majesty,” Nick replied, snatching his weapon from Chief Petty Officer Seifert’s hand. “I didn’t tell you to run up on us like that.”
“Damn, Nick!” Seifert replied, flipping his robe back and pulling his body armor to the side. “That bitch stung!”
“Sorry,” Nick replied flippantly as he walked past Seifert toward the van.
The other four men continued to fire their weapons into the air for a few more seconds as Nick joined them.
“Who shot Vixen?” Nick asked in passing before he leaned against the driver’s side door and grabbed Charlotte’s limp form, lifting her head by the hair. Her eyes were open and vacant.
“Pity,” he said with mock sadness. “She was good in the sack.”
“Hey!” she said, suddenly snapping out of character as a corpse. “As if I’d screw a goat-smelling punk like you.”
The other SEALs burst out laughing.
“Sounds like you won't be gettin’ none tonight,” Petty Officer “Mac” McIntyre muttered with a chuckle.
“Or any night,” Charlotte snapped bitterly as she got out of the van before slamming the door angrily.
“Is he gone, Crow?” Nick asked into his mic, ignoring her angry protest.
“Like shit through a goose,” Crow replied from the roof of the factory. “I didn’t know you could run that fast with a load in your pants.”
Everyone who hadn’t been shot in the chest with a SIG .357 round burst out in laughter.
“Okay,” Nick said, tossing his empty rifle into the van. “Let’s pack this shit up and get out of here before the locals get curious.”
Petty Officers Egermayer, Mac, and Mason bumped fists with Nick one at a time before he turned toward Seifert—but the chief was still rubbing his chest under his armor.
“I’m sorry, Seif,” Nick offered sincerely. “He was too close. He’d have seen it if I shot into the dirt and wondered why you died anyway.”
“That’s alright,” Seifert said and quickly raised his pistol, firing a shot into Nick’s chest.
Nick fell to the ground, writhing. “No——armor,” Nick sputtered through the pain.
Seifert’s face turned white, contorted in panic, and immediately dropped to his knees to search Nick's chest for the wound. Nick lashed out, punching Seifert in the face before quickly rolling away from the big SEAL. As soon as he was clear he hopped to his feet and began dancing around Seifert like a boxer as the larger man tried to sit up.
Nick laughed as he massaged his chest. “Ow!” he muttered, rubbing and rotating his shoulder. “When do I not wear armor?”
“Bitch,” Seifert muttered with a grin, holding his jaw. “I hope you’d lose it when you’re screwing.”
“Nope,” Charlotte called out from the van.
Guffaws and whoops of laughter burst from the other SEALs.
**
7:25 a.m.—Fairfax, Virginia
Her arm fell across my shoulder, waking me. I slowly opened my eyes and saw the first pale color of the morning starting to slip through my window and smiled as I turned over to face her.
“Good morning,” I said sleepily.
“Guten Morgan,” Kathrin replied softly as her hand trailed gently down my shoulder to my bare chest.
I leaned forward and kissed her, wrapping my
arm around her narrow waist before drawing her closer, pressing our bodies together. The warmth she exuded woke my—
My alarm went off ripping me from my dream. I’d had that dream a lot over the past month. I have to say, though, it was just about the only thing I was enjoying about my sleep.
I had been waking up each morning feeling as if I had slept in a cryogenic coma for years. It felt like I had gone to sleep the night before and an entire lifetime had passed while I slumbered. This morning was no different. It was only a second before the pleasant warmth from the dream of Kathrin faded into a vague recollection; a shadow of a memory of a desire that remained unfulfilled.
“Where’s my brain been?” I muttered as I stretched into a seated position in bed.
No answer. That was a good sign—or at least I hoped it was.
As I slid my legs over the edge of the bed, I rubbed my eyes and looked down at the scars on my chest and belly—the deep-tissue reminders of lessons learned. They reinforced the sense that my life had left me behind and I, somehow, had to catch up to it—as if there were something I had forgotten to do in my sleep.
My schizophrenia, or whatever it was, had been graciously silent for the past couple of weeks. It gave me hope that my life was returning to some semblance of normal after the attack last month—the one that had left two men in ninja costumes dead in my stairwell.
But my silent wish for normalcy forced a sudden feeling of sadness on me.
What’s that? I wondered. Pity? Boredom?
And that was my dilemma: my mind wanted my old routine back—the one I had before I rescued Barb from the Bosnian Serb mercenaries in May—but every other part of me wanted action—the fight, the bombs, the guns.
It terrified me and excited me all at the same time. And each night, when I went to sleep, it felt like I had left something undone—some struggle that hadn’t yet been completed.
I looked at my phone to check the time and noticed the date.
“Shit,” I muttered. Mom’s birthday.
I really didn’t want to face her. She wouldn’t recognize me anyway, and I’d be left feeling sad for a month—but I’d feel guilty as shit if I didn’t go.
