The Target_A Taskforce Story

by Brad Taylor

Aaron grumped, “So what. I can drink from a bottle.”

  Shoshana said, “You sure about that? Hard to drink when you’re unconscious.”

  Aaron had made it as far as Florida Street on his walk east to west before collapsing on the sidewalk. He’d missed most of the action because he was in the back of an ambulance headed to the hospital. A second ambulance, along with a healthy police response, had shown up on Shoshana’s side of the street. Gideon, knowing what was going to occur, had demanded her weapon, then had told her to flee the scene. She did so reluctantly, because he was bleeding from a gunshot wound to his thigh.

  Aaron said, “They tell me I have a concussion. That’s not brought on by dehydration.”

  Shoshana said, “Aaron, do it for me?”

  He reluctantly stuck his arm out, and the nurse gave Shoshana a grateful smile.

  After the nurse was done and had left the room, Daniel asked, “What’s your status?”

  “They want to keep me here overnight. Monitor my brain waves or something. Apparently, they don’t believe that I can lay on a hotel bed just as easily as this one.”

  Shoshana said, “Apparently they know you won’t lay on your hotel bed. Listen to them. Take a rest.”

  “From what I heard on the news, you should be laying here.”

  She grinned, saying, “But then I’d have to admit to being at the scene, instead of just saying I’d been in a car wreck like you did.”

  Aaron smiled and said, “What’s the fallout?”

  “Gideon remained behind. Gave up his diplomatic passport to police and claimed he’d single-handedly escaped the bomb, then killed Konrad.”

  Daniel said, “Going to be hard to explain that bullet hole to the head from close range. And the number of witnesses who saw a woman.”

  Shoshana said, “After the botched investigation into the Jewish Center bombing in ’94, they aren’t going to press the issue against a diplomat from Israel. There will be no autopsy and no close questioning of witnesses. It’ll fade away. The only thing that sucks is that asshole gets all the glory from Mossad, like he’s a super spy.”

  Aaron said, “He’ll get it on the surface, which is fine by me. What’s more important are the ones who hold power over Samson. The ones who wanted to burn us after Amman. They won’t forget what we did here.” He looked at Shoshana and said, “What you did here.”

  She said, “What’s that mean?”

  Daniel said, “I wasn’t allowed to say anything last night, because we weren’t sure where this thing was going to end up, but when I visited Aaron yesterday, the ramsad called, personally. On the secure cell phone.”

  Aaron said, “Gideon didn’t brag about any exploits to him. In fact, he sang our praises, detailing how we’d penetrated the plot, then defused it, with no assets other than ourselves. Apparently, Gideon’s highly impressed with our skills. Though less impressed with his broken nose.”

  Shoshana dropped her eyes, and he said, “The man deserved it, after the way he treated us. Of course, I didn’t tell him that the way we’d ‘penetrated’ the plot was to allow ourselves to be captured.”

  Shoshana grinned at that, and Aaron held her eyes. He said, “I did tell him what you’d accomplished the other night. About your iron will, and dedication to both the team and the mission.”

  Feeling embarrassed, she started to say something, and he waved a hand. “Don’t bother. The ramsad wasn’t surprised at either, and I’m embarrassed to say I was.” He glanced at Daniel, then said, “He told me to convey to you that you can have any assignment you want within the Mossad, commensurate with your rank. You’re free to leave, with your history expunged based on his recommendation.”

  She went from Daniel to Aaron, now realizing why Daniel had been so nice the night before. It was to soften the blow of getting released from the team. Just when she felt she had finally found a home.

  As casually as she could, she said, “If I leave, you get a man to replace me from one of the Sayeret units?

  “Yes. Ramsad said I get the pick of the litter, but it’s up to you.”

  So she was being pushed out. She was surprised to find her eyes wanting to water. She said, “Is that what you want?”

  Daniel answered, more firmly than she expected. “No. It’s not what we want at all. We want you to stay. I actually begged Aaron not to even tell you the offer.”

  Aaron said, “Of course, given it came from the ramsad, that was out of the question. So, the only question that remains is with you. Will you stay?”

  The whipsaw between the two extremes of what she believed was occurring rendered her speechless.

  After a few seconds, Daniel snapped, “Well? Are you running through options or what?”

  She recovered and grinned, seeing he was truly worried about her answer. She said, “It depends. Do I get the pick of rooms next time?”

  Read on for an exclusive extended excerpt of Brad Taylor’s

  Ring of Fire

  A Pike Logan Thriller

  Available January 10, 2017, wherever books and eBooks are sold.

  1

  One day in September 2001

  Dexter Trippler didn’t set out to murder anyone. Nobody in his position would. As an up-and-coming small businessman, killing another human being would definitely be counterproductive to his goals. All he was doing was trying to ensure the growth of his company.

  But he killed nonetheless.

  Representing the position of president, CEO, CFO, and every other position on his firm’s board—which is to say it was barely large enough to be called a “firm”—today was the day when he hoped to finally break out. To catch the whale of a contract that would allow him to quit groveling for scraps at the military industrial complex’s table and start throwing out scraps of his own.

  The owner of a small aircraft maintenance firm called Icarus Solutions—a name Dexter thought incredibly clever—he had struggled to survive for years, barely earning enough to pay the rent for his hangar at the Sarasota airport. He had lived hand to mouth for so long he was no longer sure what the opposite would be, his privileged upbringing a thing of the past. The pressure had destroyed his marriage—although that had probably been preordained with his choice of a bride, who was used to the better things in life. He cursed the misfortune that arrived time and time again, convinced it wasn’t his abilities but unseen forces conspiring to drive him into the grave.

  That all changed the day he met the prince.

  Seven months earlier, an aircraft from Saudi Arabia had landed in Sarasota, Florida, and a pompous delegation had exited, running through a spring shower to a caravan of limousines. They’d raced out of the airport without talking to anyone, and then one of the pilots had approached his hangar. An Aussie or Kiwi from his accent, Dexter could tell he was upset, even if he tried not to show it. It turned out the aircraft had a maintenance issue, and nobody within the Sarasota Manatee Airport Authority was willing to help him in the timeline required. The pilot said the “prince” would be in the area for only about four hours, and he wouldn’t be pleased if his plane wasn’t airworthy when he returned.

  Dexter had agreed to help, and one thing led to another, until a crown prince of the house of al-Saud was personally thanking him. The entourage then left in the same flurry in which it had arrived, and Dexter found himself standing next to the one Saudi Arabian who’d remained behind. His name was Tariq bin Abdul-Aziz, and he was the reason for the prince’s visit. The son of an incredibly influential Saudi financier, he lived in Sarasota and wanted to learn to fly.

  Strangely enough, they’d bonded through that mutual love of aviation, with Tariq showing up for coffee each morning just to watch the airplanes come and go. Somewhere in the conversations, Dexter had mentioned how he had failed to secure a single government contract in the entire time he’d been in business, and that Icarus Solutions was on its last
legs. Tariq had smiled knowingly, telling Dexter he didn’t understand how such things worked, taking the time to explain in detail the slimy underbelly of government deal-making.

  And now Dexter was committed. Driving up to the access control point for Tariq’s neighborhood, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Didn’t matter, because it was too late to do anything about it now. He gave his name and identification to the guard manning the gate. The guard looked at it, compared it to a board in the shack, then handed him a pass. Dexter put it on the dash, then drove his Honda Civic through the gates of Tariq’s posh neighborhood, hoping the darkness would hide the dents and gouges on the Civic’s battered frame.

  Ogling the ostentatious McMansions that lined the road, most garishly illuminated with lighting that should be reserved for the Vegas strip, he felt giddy and more than a little scared.

  Either the prince had come through, or he hadn’t. If he had, Dexter would build a McMansion of his own, perhaps in this same neighborhood. If he hadn’t, well, Dexter was finished. His entire business—not to mention every other asset he owned—would be forfeited for the two million dollars he’d borrowed to make the “donation.”

  At least he’d never have to pay another blood cent to his shrew of an ex-wife.

  Small consolations.

  Two blocks from Tariq bin Abdul-Aziz’s house, he unconsciously slowed, not wanting to hear the decision. Reflecting on what had brought him to this point. Without even realizing it, he drove past the house, seeing one of the four garage doors open, an SUV with the rear hatch raised in front of it, the lights on inside.

  He backed up and swung into the driveway, his headlights sweeping across someone with a suitcase. He squinted and saw it was Tariq.

  He parked and got out, now considerably worried. “Tariq, hey, what’s up?”

  Startled, Tariq whirled around, then grinned sheepishly. “Dexter, you scared the shit out of me.” No sooner had the curse word slipped from his mouth before he was glancing around, looking for his wife.

  A small man with an olive complexion and a pencil-thin black mustache, Tariq had initially surprised Dexter with his Western habits, but Dexter had learned he’d spent the majority of his life outside of Saudi Arabia, having first attended boarding school in England before college in America. His wife, on the other hand, was devoutly religious and didn’t take kindly to his Western affections.

  When she didn’t appear, he loaded the suitcase into the rear of the SUV. Dexter noticed it was crammed to the windows with all manner of items, increasing his alarm.

  He said, “What’s all this? What’s happening?”

  Tariq smiled, saying, “I received some wonderful news. I made it into a prestigious graduate program in my home country, but I have to be there the day after tomorrow. We’re flying home.”

  Dexter saw Tariq’s wife coming toward them from inside the garage, carrying a baby and wearing a black abaya, her head covered in a colorful hijab.

  Confused, Dexter said, “You’re all leaving? For good?”

  “Yes. We have tickets for tonight, but I hope to come back in a year or two.”

  “What about the house? Your cars? The furniture?”

  “It’s my father’s house, actually, and he will deal with it. It’s nothing.”

  Finally, Dexter asked the question that mattered the most: “What about me?”

  He saw confusion flit across Tariq’s face and realized that two million dollars to this man was the same as a five-dollar bill to Dexter. Something that didn’t really matter.

  Dexter said, “We had a deal, right? I created the shell company and provided the required ‘donation.’ I know it’s already been withdrawn. Don’t tell me you guys screwed me over two million dollars. It’s nothing to you, but everything to me.”

  Dexter finally saw recognition. Tariq said, “Yes, yes, I’m sorry. I’ve been so preoccupied with packing I forgot.” He placed another suitcase in the back, then turned around, formally straightening up and extending his right hand. Dexter hesitantly took it, waiting.

  Tariq said, “Congratulations. After fierce competition and extensive vetting, you beat out thirteen other international companies.” He winked, then said, “Based on my father’s recommendation, the royal family has selected you for the maintenance contract.”

  And like that, all the fear was washed away. Once a beggar of scraps, Dexter was now a player. The owner of a multimillion-dollar contract that would guarantee his rise.

  Dazed, he started to reply when Tariq said, “I’m happy for you, my friend, but we’re late for our flight. I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  He reached into the SUV and retrieved a briefcase. He pulled out a folder and said, “All of your contacts are in there. Remember, you can’t mention either my father or me. Just contact the people in there and they will do the rest.”

  Dexter nodded dumbly. Tariq hugged him, kissing both of his cheeks, then climbed into the driver’s seat. He checked to ensure his wife and baby were settled, then gave Dexter a two-finger salute before driving away.

  Dexter turned to watch him go, slowly winding in a circle. The car’s taillights receded around a corner, and Dexter was left reflecting on his new fortune. He gripped the folder hard enough to bend it, thinking one thought: Need a new shell company.

  He drove his old Civic out of the land of milk and honey, pulling out his cell phone as he did so. He clicked on the speed dial for a contact labeled CHIP SAVOY.

  There was no way he would let his money-grubbing ex-wife know about his newfound largess, and to keep that from happening, he needed Chip.

  A fraternity brother from college, Chip had done much, much better than Dexter up until now. Currently a hedge-fund manager on Wall Street, Chip had been the one to walk him through the initial establishment of the shell company in the Bahamas for the Saudis, and also the one who had fronted the “donation” inside that shell company.

  They had been as close as brothers in school, and whenever they were together, the present income disparity between the two men disappeared. Chip treated Dexter like he always had—as his own blood—but Dexter knew that at the end of the day, money mattered. Chip was smart and had done the research on the contract. When he’d seen the companies vying for it—all of them the biggest names in the industry—he’d realized the potential for massive profits, given Dexter’s light footprint. He’d fronted Dexter the means for success because he expected a return. And Dexter had no illusion that if it had gone south, his “brother” would have taken everything he owned.

  But that was water under the proverbial bridge, because it had worked. Now all Dexter needed to do was protect his investment.

  The phone rang and rang, then went to voice mail. He left a message, fantasizing about the Playboy Bunny Chip was probably sleeping with at that very moment.

  He turned onto Highway 41, going home, and was hit with a logjam of cars. Traffic was always a pain, but not at nine o’clock at night. And then he remembered: The president was visiting Sarasota, doing some good-deal thing at a local elementary school the next day. He’d arrived thirty minutes ago, and his security team had jammed up every major artery.

  Dexter muttered in aggravation, then settled in to wait, his twenty-minute drive to a beer now drawn out to at least an hour.

  2

  Chip Savoy exited the subway, fighting his way through the great unwashed mass of people also striving to leave. One man bumped into him, spilling Chip’s morning coffee and eliciting some choice words.

  The daily morning commute was becoming very trying, but it was the price he would have to pay if he wanted to live in Greenwich, Connecticut, instead of Manhattan. The city had been cool and new when he was scraping by for a living, but that had been years ago. He hadn’t had to scrape for anything in a long time, and he had eventually decided it would be prudent to move to the upscale landscape of Greenwich. Nothi
ng makes money like more money, and acting rich was half the battle.

  Fine suits, fine dining, and fine cars—all a show for his clients. Well, mostly a show. There was no denying he enjoyed it, with the exception of the commute.

  He’d taken to leaving his house earlier and earlier in an effort to beat the rush, but as far as he could tell, the rush started sometime around five in the morning, and there was no way he was getting up in the dead of night to arrive at work hours before any other executive. He had appearances to keep up, after all.

  He reached the street and entered the flow of people swirling about, all headed purposefully somewhere, moving faster and faster, as if the time spent on the sidewalk was dangerous. He stopped, glancing into a cloudless blue sky, taking a moment to simply savor the day. Once inside the office, he knew this simple pleasure of doing nothing but breathing would be overshadowed by the dog-eat-dog world of making money.

  Eventually, he crossed the street and entered his building’s plaza, showing his badge to the security man and walking through a small turnstile. After a short wait, he walked into the elevator and rode to the ninety-fifth floor, with others getting off before him, stealing glances at him as they left. The higher one went, the more money was spent on the space, and he was going very high.

  The company he worked for had the entire floor, and the elevator spilled right into the middle of it. He exited, seeing the young guns already at work, slaving away in a cubicle farm that stretched throughout the office, all striving to reach Chip’s level.

  In the not-too-distant past, Chip had been one of them. Now, he had an office. Not a corner one, to be sure, but at least one with a view of Manhattan. The corner office would come soon enough.

  He said a few pleasantries as he went through, leaving the cube farm behind to his coveted space away from the chaos. He passed by his secretary’s desk—she wouldn’t be in for another hour—and unlocked his office. He swung open the door, and the reams of folders sitting on his desk gave him a spasm of regret. It was like a continual gushing of paper and electrons, all of them deals staggering in their monotony, with little inspiration and certainly no joy.