Ready to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  “What do we bring?”

  “Overnight bags. We’ll supply the rest.”

  “I’ll bet that’s an expensive flight.”

  “It is.”

  “Okay, we’ll be there.”

  “Take something to help you sleep during the flight.”

  “I doubt I’ll be sleeping anytime soon.”

  Nathan ended the call and stared at his phone. Ignoring the call hadn’t really been an option. When the director of the CIA called, you answered. Besides, he liked Rebecca Cantrell. His trust in her wasn’t absolute, but she’d never done anything to make him question her integrity. Still, he had to wonder: What on earth required a face-to-face with the director of Central Intelligence? Nathan didn’t like the implications. Could this be about a potential leak? He and Harv weren’t operations officers anymore, and surely Cantrell had people she could send to Nicaragua. So why involve them? It didn’t make sense. One thing was certain—he and Harv weren’t doing any wet work. Those days were long past.

  He needed to call Harv right away. When he got thrown into voice mail, he sent a text.

  call me asap

  That would get his friend’s attention. Harv would drop everything and call back right away, probably within—

  His phone rang with a familiar tone. “Harv.”

  “Nate.”

  “Thanks for calling me.”

  “How’s the hand holding up? I hope you’re not overworking it.”

  “It’s doing okay.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I just got off the phone with our friend on the Potomac.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “We’re going out there tonight.”

  “Did she say what it’s about?”

  “Central America.”

  Harv hesitated for a second. “Tell me we aren’t talking about what I think we’re talking about.”

  “I’m afraid we are.”

  Harv asked, “Are we going in?”

  “She said yes.”

  Harv waited a moment before responding. “I hope you reminded her we’re retired.”

  “I did. She told me . . . us . . . that we’re never retired.”

  “With all due respect to your beloved friend, that’s complete and utter horseshit. It has to end sometime. If we help her, it’s because we made the choice, not the reverse.”

  “Come on, Harv. You know how it works.”

  “I’m just venting. I have no desire to step foot in that hellhole ever again.”

  “On that, we agree.”

  “What do we bring?”

  “Just overnight bags.” Nathan’s phone chimed with a text message. “Hang on, I’ve got a text coming through . . . looks like we’ve got . . . two hours.”

  “Two hours?” Harv asked.

  “We’re leaving from Monty.”

  “This isn’t about our old friend, is it?”

  “She said it isn’t.”

  “Well, at least that’s something.”

  “Let’s just find out what’s going on and take things from there.”

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby of Corporate Helicopters.”

  “Ninety minutes.”

  “See you there,” Harv said.

  CHAPTER 4

  Just before 1800 hours, Nathan and Harv rode out to the flight line in a Corporate Helicopters shuttle cart.

  Like Nathan, Harv maintained himself in top physical condition. Half-Hispanic, half-white, Harv was a handsome man. Behind a tan complexion, his light-hazel eyes and graying hair gave him a distinguished look. Although Harv wouldn’t take it as an insult, Nathan thought his friend looked like a politician.

  They exchanged smiles when they saw their ride. Its engines whining with power, the white Challenger was a beautiful jet and looked to be about sixty feet long. The first officer introduced herself and asked to see their IDs. She took a little too long looking at Nathan’s face but recovered with a warm smile. She told them the flight would take a little under five hours with a local arrival time of 0200 hours. She showed them the amenities, gave them a safety briefing, and disappeared into the cockpit. He and Harv settled into their seats and buckled up. Five minutes later they were climbing into a twilight sky and turning east.

  Nathan resolved to try to get some sleep but didn’t feel optimistic. Unpleasant memories kept surfacing. Mind over matter, he told himself and took another look at the booze cabinet.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Huh?”

  “You keep glancing at the liquor cabinet.”

  “You’d never let me do it.”

  “You got that right.”

  Nathan grinned. “Think you could take me?”

  Harv issued a half laugh. “You’re falling apart at the seams. You may be four inches taller and outweigh me by forty pounds, but I know all your vulnerable spots. It’d be over in ten seconds.”

  “Sounds like your bedroom.”

  “Hey, watch it. Besides, I’m good for at least two minutes with Candace.”

  “How often are you getting it?”

  “More than you.”

  Nathan waited, trying not to smile.

  “Okay, lately? Hardly ever. I’ve been guaranteed a minimum of three times a year. Christmas, my birthday, and Groundhog Day.”

  “Groundhog Day?”

  “It’s best if you don’t ask . . .”

  “What did you tell Candace about this sudden excursion?”

  “I told her it has something to do with an old mission and that it’s just housekeeping—which hopefully, isn’t far from the truth. She didn’t like it, but she’s okay. She knows the acronym we used to work for.”

  They enjoyed a companionable silence for a few minutes.

  “This is a nice ride,” Harv said, reclining his leather seat a little. “These things go horizontal for snoozing. I could get seriously spoiled flying this way.”

  “I’m gonna grab a water, you want one?”

  “I do. Thanks.”

  Nathan unbuckled and raided the small refrigerator near the lavatory. He chose two sparkling waters.

  “Do you think Cantrell’s going to meet us at Dulles?” Harv asked.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “At zero two hundred?”

  “She basically ordered us to drop everything and respond. It would be bad form to send a driver or make us take a cab somewhere.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m going to crash for a few. I know you have a hard time sleeping on planes, but try to get some shut-eye anyway.”

  “Thanks, Harv, I will. I’ll wake you when we start our descent.”

  Nathan knew there was no point in further speculation about the face-to-face meeting. He’d have his answer in a few hours. He closed his eyes and reclined his chair. If he fell asleep, he hoped he wouldn’t dream of Nicaragua.

  A sudden jolt awoke Nathan. Feeling disoriented, he quickly sat up and looked around. The bump he’d felt was the landing.

  “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “I can’t believe I fell asleep. You?”

  “A couple of hours, you know the adage . . .”

  “Sleep when you can.”

  The Challenger turned off the runway and began taxiing.

  “It’s really tempting to time-share one of these jets,” Harv said, “but it would be hard to justify.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, but as little as we fly, it wouldn’t make economic sense. It’s infinitely cheaper flying commercial everywhere.”

  Nathan and Harv owned a highly profitable private-security company. They’d founded First Security Inc. a few years after they’d retired from the CIA. Their firm specialized in sophisticated alarm systems and countersurveillance measures for homes an
d businesses. They also taught personal-security awareness and tactical-combat classes to VIPs and corporate executives. So far, they’d done extremely well. Last year, Harv started an armored SUV line, and he’d already secured a five-vehicle contract with three more big clients ready to sign.

  “Well, at least you didn’t have to go through a TSA checkpoint. I know how much you love doing that, Nate.”

  “It’s not that bad—it just makes me want to break a few arms.”

  Harv smiled. “You’ve come a long way. Twenty years ago, you would’ve wanted to break a few necks.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Nathan heard his phone chime with a text message.

  How was your flight?

  Very nice, thx . . . Are you meeting us?

  Yes. I’m inside the Dulles Jet Center. See you in a few.

  “Cantrell?” Harv asked.

  “She’s waiting for us in the jet center.”

  “Good call.”

  “Well, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure.”

  When the Challenger stopped in the transient parking area, the first officer emerged from the cockpit and lowered the fuselage door, which also served as a ladder. They grabbed their overnight bags, complimented the crew on a pleasant flight, and stepped down to the tarmac. A jet center employee escorted them over to the automatic glass doors.

  Director Cantrell was waiting inside with two men—presumably operations officers doubling as bodyguards. Both men wore business suits and had small ear speakers with lapel mikes. Cantrell was dressed in a dark pants suit. In her early fifties, her shoulder-length brown hair had a touch of gray. She stood at least a foot shorter than Nathan but possessed a commanding presence. Harv and he approached Cantrell and shook hands. Introductions were made. Nathan noticed that the woman behind the jet center’s counter seemed to recognize Cantrell. When the woman made eye contact with Nathan, he winked. She forced a smile and quickly averted her eyes.

  “It’s good to see you guys,” Cantrell said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Glad to do it, Rebecca. You’re working late.”

  “I’m on graveyard for a spell. We’ve got an operation going on the other side of the world. We’re about to collar a major bad guy.”

  “Aren’t you in more of a political position?” Harv asked.

  “I’ve been resisting it.” She smiled, then gave each of them a look, up and down. “You guys look sharp.”

  “Five Eleven Tactical line,” Nathan said.

  “It looks good on you.”

  “Thank you.” Nathan wanted to ask what was going on but knew it had to wait until they were clear of any potential eavesdropping equipment.

  “We’re parked out front,” she said. They began walking toward the street-side entrance. At the door, Rebecca stopped and let the two operations officers leave the building. Nathan watched them through the glass as they visually searched the immediate area. One of them spoke into his lapel mike. Tight security, he thought. The director of the CIA was undoubtedly in the crosshairs of countless assassins, with al-Qaeda fanatics topping the list. Although he gave it low odds, a sniper could be out there. He suspected Cantrell was being guarded by at least six officers at any given time—some of them they’d never see.

  Rebecca acknowledged nods from her men, and they stepped through the doors.

  Two charcoal-gray SUVs waited at the curb. Nathan noticed the ballistic glass right away. No doubt they were fully armored with environmental protection from gas or biological attacks.

  “Does it wear you out? The twenty-four-seven security?” Nathan asked.

  “You kind of get used to it, but to answer your question, at times, yes.”

  An officer slid out of the driver’s seat, surveyed the immediate area, and opened the rear door of the second SUV. Rebecca thanked her, and they got in. Behind the soundproof glass separating them from the driver’s compartment, two sets of opposing seats greeted them. One of the officers they’d met inside the jet center got into the back with them; the other climbed into the passenger seat of the lead SUV, and they were on their way.

  “Why are we here, Rebecca?” Nathan asked. “And why you? Whatever the situation is, it’s got to be below your pay grade.”

  “This requires my personal involvement.”

  Nathan waited.

  “As you’ve surmised, we have a development in Nicaragua. Video cameras at the US embassy in Managua recorded a man throwing a paper airplane over the fence. The marines guarding the post didn’t approach it. They were concerned it might’ve been laced with something. I’ve seen the surveillance video, and it’s obvious the man had purposely disguised himself. He appeared to be Latino with dark hair, probably a wig, oversized dark sunglasses, ball cap—you get the picture. His size and build are consistent with ninety percent of men on the planet. Here’s where it gets cryptic, and it’s the reason I asked you guys to come out here. The note had only ten words.”

  She pulled a folded piece of paper from her coat pocket and handed it to Nathan.

  ECHO FOUR: YOUR HELP IS NEEDED. RAVEN IS ACTIVE AGAIN.

  Nathan looked at Harv but didn’t say anything.

  “Echo four was Harvey’s designation,” Cantrell said. “You were Echo five. I’m hoping you guys can give me something on the raven reference.”

  Nathan didn’t say anything. He looked at the man sitting next to Cantrell.

  “You can speak freely. Bill’s my personal assistant, and he’s been thoroughly briefed on the Echo program.”

  “Raven was the best shooter we trained down there.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Give me everything, Nathan. I want to know all there is to know about this man. Being trained by you makes him extremely lethal. I’m assuming he graduated and didn’t wash out?”

  “Yes, he graduated.” Nathan said. “I remember him well. We remember him well. We had our doubts about Raven, but we didn’t pick him for the program. That decision was made by his commanding officer, a lieutenant, as I recall. As you know, the candidate selection process was kept secret, even from us. Not just anyone could enlist in the program. Over a five-month period, our recruits underwent an intensive program designed to make them proficient in hand-to-hand combat, small arms, IEDs, surveillance, and countersurveillance. We also taught basic field-interrogation technique, tracking, and stealth, you name it. When our recruits finished the program, they had the equivalent of recon training with a strong emphasis on sniper skills. They didn’t come to us green, they were hardened Contra rebels who’d been fighting a nasty civil war against the Sandinista regime. They already knew much of what we taught them. We just sharpened their skills.”

  “Since no paper exists on any of this, I’m relying on my memory, but I don’t recall reading anything about a code name ‘Raven.’”

  “That’s right. You wouldn’t have,” Harv said. “We gave all of our recruits nicknames. The CIA teams were called Echo units, and the Contra teams were kilo units. But we found calling them K1, K2, K3, and so on was too impersonal. We spent five months with them.”

  “So Raven was a shooter, not a spotter?”

  “That’s right,” Nathan said. “And a good one. He had the gift. It’s hard to explain how some people just have what it takes to be shooters. I never doubted he’d make it through. He was in great condition, had all the physical prerequisites, and had a good mindset . . . Maybe a little too good.” Nathan looked at Harv, then said, “I can’t swear it happened, but when he made his first kill, his face lit with . . . I don’t know . . . exhilaration, I guess.”

  “The guy smiled,” Harv said. “There was no guessing about it. No one ever smiles. We’ve seen men become everything from withdrawn to physically ill over their first kill. This guy loved it.”

  “Harv and I don’t necessarily agree on this. It’s the Mona Lisa question—is she smiling
or not?”

  “I know what I saw,” Harv said.

  “You’re saying he enjoyed it?”

  “In my opinion, he absolutely did.”

  “While you were flying out here, I reread many of your mission reports from pre-Nicaraguan ops, and it’s clear: you always expressed regret at the actual taking of a human life. You were damned good at your jobs, but you didn’t like pulling the trigger.”

  “Rebecca,” Nathan said, “we’re getting into personal introspection here that I’m uncomfortable talking about.”

  “Before Bill became an operations officer, he spent several years with the ATF as a special response team sniper.”

  Nathan raised a brow.

  “Two,” Bill said.

  Rebecca continued. “I also read your report on the emotional aspect of being a shooter.”

  “You’re talking about the second kill being the hardest?” Nathan asked.

  “You both agreed the second kill was more difficult, because it meant you were willing to do it again.”

  Nathan looked out his window before refocusing on Cantrell. “We can’t speak for anyone else, but that was true for us. Our first kill went by in a blur. It didn’t . . . I don’t know, seem real. It almost felt like we were acting in a play. It took us a few days to decompress and really think about what we’d done. When we went out for the second op, it felt different . . . like a job, I guess. Every sniper has to deal with the job in their own way. There’s no book to consult on the psychological impact of being a shooter. Is it cowardly to kill someone who has no clue he’s about to die? Is it fair? What is fair in war? Harv and I have talked about this at great length, and we’ve concluded that we saved American, coalition, and civilian lives. If a friendly position is being overrun and the commander on the ground calls in an airstrike, is that a cowardly act? In our opinion, it’s clearly not. That commander used an available asset to save the lives of his troops and hold his position. There’s an undeniable callousness associated with being a sniper, because it’s up close and personal through the scope. You just have to disconnect from it. Think of it like an emotion switch that you turn off and on like a light. To make a kill, you disengage by turning the switch off.”