by Brad Taylor
“I thought we jumped in three men. For a total of five with Jennifer.”
Shit. Shouldn’t have brought up numbers. Kurt didn’t want to get into Pike’s actions and Jennifer’s reactions, unsure of how the president would react. Kurt knew Pike as well as he knew himself, and believed him when he said he was good. Pike would pull himself out of action if he thought he was endangering the mission, but Kurt wasn’t sure the president would see it the same way.
Disgusted, he realized that by keeping Pike’s operational fiasco a secret, he was committing the same mistake he feared in the president. One man controlling the information and thus the outcome.
“Sir, Jennifer’s come down with a bug. She’s got it coming out of both ends. If she’s not better by tomorrow, she’s coming home.”
He internally cursed himself for the lie, and resolved to never do it again. This is how it starts. This is how the Taskforce becomes a threat. Who’s lying to me? He knew that the team wasn’t, because trust was a cornerstone of Taskforce faith. And felt disgusted again at his lying.
The president said, “Sorry to hear that. She’s proving to be an asset. The team’s enough, though?”
“Yeah. It’s enough. It had better be. Doing another infil is pushing more luck than we have.”
“What do you think we should do if nothing’s in Egypt? What’s the next thread?”
Kurt inwardly cringed. “Sir, that’s a question that we should pose to the council.”
The president leaned back, staring hard at Kurt. “We both know something’s coming. I’m not sure the council does. They’re all worried about the focus on my reelection, and I won’t tolerate American deaths because of that.”
“Sir, I know. But we need to trust what we created. The checks and balances were right then, and they’re right now, even with the imminent threat. Especially with the imminent threat. We need to stand by what we promised. Please.”
The president sat for a second, then nodded and changed the subject. “Anything come out of those pictures?”
Kurt breathed an inward sigh of relief. “Not really.”
He tossed the folder on the president’s desk. “Those are the only ones that came out, and they’re not that big of a help. If there was a connection to the terrorist hit in Alexandria, it died with my father.”
The president flipped through the photos once, then went back. Eventually, he laid out the three of the Caucasian man, staring intently.
“Jesus Christ.”
Kurt said, “What?”
“This guy’s got something on his face. A birthmark.”
The president looked up at him, his complexion a little pale. “I think I know who this is.”
30
E
arly the next morning, I knocked on Jennifer’s door, not sure of what I was going to say. She had a flight in a couple of hours, but I hoped the jump operation last night might have changed her mind. I saw a shadow on the peephole, but the door didn’t budge. Shit. She’s not even going to let me say good-bye.
I knocked again. “Jennifer. Please. Open the door.”
After a second, it cracked a few inches. Jennifer looked terrible, like she hadn’t slept. Her eyes, once gray and piercing, were now raw and red. Her hair hung limp against her scalp like a houseplant that hadn’t been watered. Knowing I was the cause of her pain sent a wave of guilt through me.
“Pike, please don’t do this. I’m going home.”
“I just want to say good-bye. Come on.”
She opened the door and walked away. She stopped at her suitcase and continued packing, not even bothering to turn around.
“Jennifer. Come on, at least look at me.”
She stopped what she was doing. “You just won’t get it. I’m going home. And you’re not changing my mind. It’s not going to happen and I don’t want to fight.”
“Why? Jennifer, I made a mistake, but that guy was bad. I’m not proud of it, but there’s no doubt in my mind. He had blood on his hands.”
She stopped what she was doing and eyed me. “Pike, that’s not the point. Or maybe it’s precisely the point. I can’t make calls like that. I don’t want to decide who gets to live and who gets to die. I’m not like you or the other operators. I can’t be that violent. I just don’t have it in me. I don’t want it in me.”
She was wrong, but she’d never believe me.
“Everyone has it in them,” I said. “When push comes to shove, every human will do whatever it takes to live. It’s what we are. You read about people who died on their knees and it’s because they’d convinced themselves that the worst wouldn’t happen. Given the chance to do it over, you bet your ass they’d fight with anything they had and kill whoever it took.”
“I don’t believe that.” She started softly crying. “I’m sorry, Pike. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t do this. I thought I wanted to, but not if I end up like you.”
“What’s that mean? End up how?”
She held up her hands in surrender. “Nothing. I have to go. I’m going to miss my flight.”
“Jennifer, wait! I’ll quit the Taskforce. I won’t do this anymore. We can go back to Charleston together. After this is over.”
The words surprised me as much as her. She said nothing for a moment, the silence hanging in the air. Then she crushed me.
“Pike… that’s not what I want. I’m sorry.”
Jennifer managed to hold her composure for the drive to the airport, only breaking down as she entered the first layer of security, silently crying while the listless guards waved her through.
She had lied to Pike, and she knew it. She did want to return to Charleston, but only with the Pike she had known before, not the Pike inside the warehouse. That man, wherever he had come from, had scared her to her marrow and caused her to question the very essence of the organization she had worked so hard to join. Pike’s only remorse seemed to be that he’d been caught.
Just because the man might have had blood on his hands doesn’t mean we get to beat him to death.
She finished with the second layer of security at the entrance to the terminal and joined the cattle call moving toward the departure gates. Walking with everyone else, she was jostled by a man trying to remove his bag from the X-ray conveyer. He politely said, “Excuse me,” and she noticed he was Asian and appeared nervous. He turned and ran to catch up to an Arab who was impatiently waiting. An Arab she recognized.
The man from the tombs.
She watched them link up with three other Arabs and walk briskly deeper into the airport. She grabbed her bag and followed.
She shadowed them for close to ten minutes, until they finally stopped and sat at a gate. She looked to the counter and saw a flight on Czech Airlines headed to Prague. She pulled out her phone and dialed Pike. He answered after three rings, his voice clearly happy.
“Hey. Glad you called. Listen, I can’t talk now. We’re at the market. I’m busy.”
She remembered that the team was going to track the remaining tourist trip to the Khan al-Khalili market in the hopes of finding a thread to pull. She was certain she was looking at the thread.
“Pike, I’m at the airport and I’ve got eyes on the man from the tombs. You’re tracking the wrong—”
He cut her off. “Jennifer, call me back. Don’t go anywhere. I gotta go.”
He hung up.
He must have his hands full. She looked at the men again, then looked at her ticket. Okay. You can always fly tomorrow.
She spent a few moments memorizing their faces, then left the airport and flagged a cab.
“Khan Khalili market, please.”
31
J
ennifer survived the cab drive through the chaos of Cairo traffic, pulling into the front entrance of the market with her knuckles white against the door handle. She paid the driver, ignoring his attempts to become her personal guide for her stay. She stood on the street and surveyed the area, trying to formulate a plan. She knew that th
e market itself, while once the center of shopping for Cairo as far back as the fourteenth century, had devolved into a massive tourist trap. The square behind her was a testament to that, as it was jammed full of tour buses transporting people from all over the world, the tourism industry finally beginning to return after the unrest of last year. She decided to start in the souvenir area and ignore the parts of the market that still served the locals. Noordin’s people could be going to the gold section, but she’d hit that after she came up empty.
She walked past the cafés on the outskirts and entered the market proper, a rat maze of hundreds of shops, most simply stalls lined with souvenirs, a few with small courtyards and doors. She could see why Pike had hung up. Staying on someone in here without getting burned would be tough.
With every step, she was accosted by shop owners, all begging her to come into their store, regardless of what they sold. She did stop every few meters and sample the wares, not because she wanted to buy anything, but because she didn’t want to step all over Pike’s surveillance.
Moving down another alley, she spotted the Members Only jacket that Retro wore. Not too hard to figure out that call sign. He needs some shopping tips.
She ducked into the nearest shop to see if she could identify the targets or Pike. The owner descended on her like a spider on a fly.
“Handmade. All handmade.”
Yeah, sure. The only time a hand has touched this stuff was when it peeled off the “Made in China” label.
She picked up a lamp, keeping an eye on the activity outside. She felt the barrel of a gun jam into her back, then a voice with a heavy Chinese accent.
“Do not move or you will die right here. I do not intend to harm you.”
“Pike, this is Retro. We got someone on us.”
I kept my eyes on Noordin’s crew. “What? You sure?”
“I’ve ID’d three so far. All Asian. And all on you. I don’t think the rest of us have spiked yet.”
What the hell? I’m being followed again? “Okay. I’m going to draw one in and see what he wants. I’m moving into the restaurant at the end of the alley.”
“What about the targets?”
“Let ’em go if you have to. Watch my back.”
I wasn’t too concerned about my safety. In fact, I felt blessed to have a second chance to find out what the hell was going on. Second chance to locate Bull’s killer. Noordin’s crew took a backseat to that. I knew only one man would penetrate into the restaurant to keep eyes on me. He’d try to be inconspicuous and wouldn’t expect an assault. I’d get the tail alone and pump him for information—without killing him.
The hostess asked where I’d like to be seated, and led me to a table. After she walked away, I went to the bathroom. Surveying quickly, I saw one stall, a urinal, and a counter with two sinks. I decided to stay inside. It would be a little bit of a wait, but eventually the curiosity of the guy would force him to enter. Once he saw me, he’d immediately act like he needed to use the toilet or wash his hands, ignoring me so I didn’t get spooked.
I decided to stay at the sink until he came inside, then head to the door, forcing him deeper into the bathroom to stay in role. Once I blocked his escape, I’d find out what he was doing.
I saw the door open and turned off the sink. I turned around and faced an Asian man. He was staring hard at me, his face set in determination. In his hand was a QSZ-92 pistol aimed at my chest. Another Chinese model, this one not sporting a suppressor.
Well, that didn’t work out like you wanted.
Jennifer remained stock-still, gripping the lamp until her knuckles were white. She heard the man say something in Chinese, then felt the barrel push her forward. He switched to English.
“Put down the lamp and leave the store. Quietly.”
The owner looked confused for a moment, Jennifer’s body blocking the view of the gun. He assumed the Chinese man was with Jennifer and repeated his mantra of handmade crafts.
The man said, “We don’t want to buy anything.” He pushed Jennifer again.
True to form all over the market, the owner suspected nothing more than a little hardball haggling. He smiled and placed his hand on the Chinese’s shoulder.
“Friend, how much is handmade worth? I have the best—”
Jennifer seized the distraction, whirling around and slamming the lamp into the man’s gun, sending it skittering through the souvenirs.
The owner’s eyes went wide at the sight of the pistol. He fled the store, screaming in Arabic out on the street. Jennifer attempted to follow, but the Chinese grabbed her arm. She felt a vise on her elbow, then a searing pain that brought her to her knees. The man twisted her wrist and used the locked joint of her elbow to drive her face-first into the ground. She ceased struggling before he could break her arm.
Jesus. He knows how to fight.
The thought sent a stinging fear through her.
Holding the joint lock with one hand, the man pulled a knife with a three-inch blade out of his belt buckle and put it against her neck.
The terror exploded in her, her brain flashing on an image of her sliced open like a sacrificial lamb, blood jetting out of her neck and coating the floor.
Gunfire exploded outside, startling them both. She felt him shift above her. The blade left her neck, and the lock loosened a fraction. Seizing the moment, she rolled to the right, relieving the strain and freeing her joints. Flipping onto her back, she scissored her calves around the legs of the man. Before he could react, she torqued them as hard as she could, rotating onto her face again and bringing him to the ground.
She leapt up and raced to the back of the store, looking for an exit. There was none. She whirled around and faced the man, warily watching his knife hand. He slashed a long, looping strike, attempting to rip her from the pelvis up. Having nothing else, she blocked it with her left arm, feeling the knife slice into the meat of her forearm.
She lashed out in a snap kick and connected with his thigh, forcing him back. She turned and grabbed another lamp, this one shaped like a lotus flower with heavy brass leaves. The blood running from her arm sent her into a feral state. She rotated with all of her might, connecting with his head and driving one of the leaves into his eye socket.
The man shrieked, a high-pitched wail like a child, and fell to his knees. She jerked the lamp free of his eye and swung again, knocking him onto his back. She fell on top of him, hacking with the lamp again and again, the brass leaves working like a medieval weapon. She stopped when she realized his skull had cratered, leaving a bloody bowl where his face should have been.
She dropped the lamp and rolled off the body, hyperventilating.
32
T
he Chinese man kicked the bathroom door closed, looking like he was about to pull the trigger. I raised my hands and said, “Whoa, whoa. Easy. Don’t shoot.” He said, “I won’t if you come quietly. You do anything else, and I will kill you. We only need one. You are just extra baggage.”
His words hammered home. They got Jennifer. And you fucking hung up on her when she called for help.
The man saw my reaction and said, “There’s a team outside. You can’t get through us all. You fight, you die.”
Before he could say anything else, the sounds of multiple weapons exploded on the street outside. The man jerked his head to the door and I struck him just above his Adam’s apple with my fist, crushing his larynx. I ripped the gun out of his hand as he fell to the floor, holding his throat and gasping for air. Leaning over him, I pulled his head up by the hair.
“Oops. Looks like you’re not the only one with a team.”
I slammed his head into the floor and left the bathroom.
The dining room was full of people cowering and screaming, all intent on getting away from the gunfire. I waded through them, batting panic-stricken tourists aside until I reached the street. Ducking behind a concrete picnic table, I could see muzzle flashes down at the end of the alley. At least four, maybe more. People w
ere screaming and diving in all directions to get away from the gunfire, with two bodies leaking blood onto the alley. I couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead.
I sought out where I’d left the team and saw Retro across the alley, pistol raised and looking for a target.
I keyed my radio, “Retro, take your guys and flank them. Hit them while they’re still focused on the alley. I’m going back into the restaurant to find a rear exit. You hit them from the left flank and I’ll hit them from the rear.”
Retro caught my eye across the alley, keying his radio. “Roger that. I told you we should have brought at least one long gun. Don’t take too long or the fight’ll be over.”
I nodded at him and turned to go back inside. I saw a small child in the alley, sitting and crying. In the middle of the funnel of rounds.
Jennifer looked at the blood on her arms, not sure how much was hers. She saw a three-inch gash in the fleshy part of her forearm, sending a stab of nausea through her. It looked like a piece of steak from the butcher, her meat leaking blood much slower than she expected. She grabbed a tourist keffiyeh and wrapped it tightly around the wound, fighting back the dizziness the sight caused. The gunfire continued outside, snapping and popping in a steady stream. She duckwalked to the front of the store and peered around a shelf that served as the entrance wall.
Looking down the alley, she saw the body of the store owner faceup, blood pumping from an open head wound. Scores of people of all nationalities were cowering wherever there was cover, and a child of two or three was in the middle of the street, wailing next to the body of a woman.
She saw the team on her side of the alley, pistols raised, looking for a clear shot.
Whoever was shooting at them had no such concerns but was keeping up a steady stream of fire at anything moving, the air in front of her snapping with the crack of supersonic rounds. She counted five muzzle flashes at the end of the alley seventy meters away.
