Operator Down

by Brad Taylor

She followed this rule for the next few minutes, starting and stopping, until she crested a small rise. She saw the headlights and pulled over to the side of the road just as they disappeared again. She began moving forward slowly, like she had before, but the lights didn’t reappear. She fought the urge to switch on her own headlights, allowing her to drive at speed, when she realized that the car had stopped next to a patch of shanties built onto a level plot of ground on the high side of the hill, behind a chain link fence. Constructed of plywood, discarded tin, and whatever else could be scrounged, it was a mini-slum with a plume of smoke coming from somewhere in the back.

  She pulled over to the side of the road, seeing the dim outline of the car. She wondered about the stop, going back and forth on whether it was worth a penetration. Wondering if this was the endgame and whether it was time to turn on her skills.

  She inched forward in her car for another hundred meters, then killed the engine, just watching. Waiting to see what happened.

  Eventually, the Caucasian returned to the car, followed by two locals. The moonlight was too low to determine if either was her target. The car started, headlights flared, and it drove another couple of hundred meters before stopping again.

  She pulled out her phone and brought up a map. The icon of her location pulsed less than two hundred meters from the Noon Gun, where tourists came to watch a cannon fire exactly at noon every day, a vestige of the signals given before everyone had a quartz watch or cell phone.

  She slipped out of her vehicle, deciding to go on foot. She went into the shadow of the woods, steering clear of the shantytown, hearing laughter and shouting from within. She reached the edge of the Noon Gun park, seeing a decrepit naval fortification in the moonlight. Old armories built into the dirt, concrete bastions from World War II, and slashes in the earth clad in cement, designed for men to scurry about loading the weapons that no longer existed.

  She held up, turning her ear to the wind. She heard a fleeting voice, lost as quickly as a wisp of smoke. She crouched in the darkness, cocking her head. She heard it again. She advanced forward, reaching the crest and seeing the entire Table Bay spilled before her down the mountain, a spectacular view.

  She ignored it, focusing on finding her target. But there was nothing.

  She waited, closing her eyes and focusing on her hearing, shutting out all other senses.

  She heard one more scrap of words, tangled in the wind. She slinked forward, getting closer and closer to the noise, until she was crawling on a concrete platform that overlooked a sunken walkway between decrepit gun positions, the cement split with weeds. She saw a light and flattened on the ground like a snake.

  She heard a noise and began slithering forward. She reached the edge and peeked over. In the pit, she saw the Caucasian, along with the two black men. She recognized one as her target.

  The Caucasian said, “Here’s what you want. You and your buddy.”

  He held something in his hand, and she saw the first black man extend his arm. The Caucasian said, “Before you get paid, who have you told about what we’re doing? Who knows about the warehouse?”

  “Nobody, man. You asked for the warehouse, and that’s all I did.”

  “You saw the contents. I know you did, and that was a mistake. Not your mistake, but it was a mistake either way. Did you tell anyone?”

  “Nobody. I don’t tell nobody.”

  The other man said, “Hey, what the hell are you guys doing? Let’s get the juice going. I don’t got long. I got to get back.”

  The Caucasian said, “Just a minute. One more minute.”

  Shoshana realized by his accent that he wasn’t American. He was from somewhere else. Eastern Europe?

  The man from the shantytown said, “Fuck that, bruh. I sold you the shit. The discount was that I get some. Let’s use it.”

  “I paid you. Wait a minute.”

  The man rolled over and said, “I’m not waiting.” He reached for the box between them, and the Caucasian pinned his hand to the concrete, saying, “That’s not for you. It’s for us.”

  Shoshana’s target said, “What the fuck you doin’, man?”

  The Caucasian reached up with his giant paw, placed it against the drug dealer’s head, and slammed it into the concrete. The man screamed and rolled away, holding his skull. The target jerked upright, now afraid, saying, “Whoa, whoa, man, no reason to get violent.”

  The Caucasian said, “Sit down. Now.”

  The man did. The Caucasian said, “I need to know. Who did you tell about the shipment?”

  “Nobody. I told you, I didn’t tell nobody.”

  The target’s brow began to leak sweat, and the Caucasian broke open the box between them. Shoshana saw a needle. She thought he was about to threaten the man but then saw his eyes open wide in anticipation. The Caucasian said, “You want to taste this? Yes?”

  “Yes. Please. I did what you asked. You owe me payment.”

  “Tell me who you talked to, you dumb fuck.”

  “I told you. I only talked to the guy in Durban. The one who helped with the Israeli? He’s cool. Come on, man. He’s cool. You know that.”

  Shoshana felt a bolt of electricity go through her. It was all she could do not to leap down into the pit.

  The Caucasian said, “Yeah, he’s cool. I’m going to see him tomorrow anyway. Hold out your arm.”

  The target did, and the Caucasian injected the dope into his veins, watching the man’s eyes. He relaxed, sagging into the concrete, and the Caucasian turned to the other. He said, “Your turn.”

  The dope seller, still holding his head in pain, realized he was in trouble. But not nearly quick enough to prevent the outcome. He tried to stand, but the Caucasian caught him, flipping him over onto his stomach, the man’s arms flailing about ineffectually. The Caucasian reached under his chin and snapped his neck like he was cleaning a chicken.

  The target saw the action, now caught in the embrace of the drugs. He struggled upright, saying, “What you doing?”

  The Caucasian said, “Ridding the world of vermin.”

  Stupidly, the target said, “What?”

  The Caucasian sprinkled the grounds with drug paraphernalia, then said, “Enjoy your last high.”

  He spit on the ground, then jogged away, running up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Shoshana flattened, and he went by her without even realizing she existed. He disappeared, and she looked back over the wall. The black man mumbled, “What dat mean? What you doing?”

  Shoshana realized he’d just killed the target with an overdose. She glanced back, making sure the man was gone, then leapt down into the pit. She checked the first man, finding him dead. She went to the second, seeing him sagging backward, his eyes lidded. She raised him up, and he sluggishly responded. She patted his face and said, “What man in Durban? Who is the man in Durban?”

  “Wha . . . who are you . . .”

  She slapped him, hard, saying, “Who is the man in Durban?”

  “Eshan? My friend Eshan? He’s my bruh . . . he’s . . . ,” and he passed out. Shoshana jerked him upright again, saying, “Don’t go, motherfucker. Don’t go. Who is Eshan? Wake the fuck up.”

  His eyes fluttered, and he fumbled at his waist, saying, “He’s my bro . . . I call him . . . he knows me . . . we didn’t do anything . . .”

  She slapped his hand away, digging into a pocket and pulling out a cell phone. She powered it up, seeing a password screen. She held it in front of his face and saw he was slowly losing his grip on reality. She slapped his face again and said, “Open this. Show me Eshan.”

  He brightened for a moment, saying, “You’ll get him here?” His words were so slurred she barely understood him.

  She said, “Yes. Unlock the phone. I’ll get him here.”

  He sat upright, a small bit of drool forming on his lips. He focused on the phone for a
full ten seconds, Shoshana wanting to punch him in frustration. He finally tapped in a sequence of digits. They failed. She bit her lip and said, “Again. Do it again.”

  He did, and it failed again. She slapped his face and got a response. He jerked upright and said, “You fucking witch . . . you witch . . . ,” and began to sag again. She grabbed his hair, shaking his head back and forth, and said, “Do it again.”

  He tried one more time, and the phone opened. She scrolled through the contacts and found someone named Eshan. She held it up to his face and said, “Is this Eshan from Durban?”

  He said, “My bro Eshan . . . he knows I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  She grabbed his shoulders and shook forcefully, saying, “Is this Eshan from Durban?”

  His eyes rolled back into his head, and he was gone.

  48

  I tossed more rand than was required onto the table, and we left the bar, both beers still full.

  Unfortunately.

  I said, “Blood, we’re headed your way. What’s your location?”

  “I’m sitting on the corner across the street from the turn down to the wharf. You’ll have to pass by the wharf road, and you’ll see me. I’m on some railway ties.”

  “Got it.”

  We went up the stairs past the mall, going by the cheesy Ripley’s Believe It or Not! exhibit, then cleared the last of the tourist area. We walked past a parking lot, seeing a spit of land going out into the water, the sparse finger of terrain covered in warehouses, forklifts, and gantry cranes. We continued on and I heard a hiss.

  I looked to my right and saw Brett curled up like a homeless derelict, in the shelter of an incredibly ugly concrete building.

  I went to him, took a knee, and said, “No change?”

  “No change. I timed the guy. He takes ten minutes to go down and come back. He starts on one side and returns on the other, and he just went down the front, so you’ve got about five minutes to get in and get out.”

  I nodded and said, “Other surveillance?”

  “Four cameras, all on the corners. You leave here and go wide, you’ll miss the one on this side. The other one already caught you walking up, though.”

  The warehouse in question was the second to the last on the finger of land jutting out into the harbor. There were six of them, and each had no internal security. The security apparatus was dedicated to the entire warehouse facility. The first camera didn’t concern me, because it caught everyone walking on the quay. The second, on the other hand, would confirm the first, if looked at after the fact.

  I said, “Jenn, you lock down the water side; Brett, you lock down the land side.”

  They both nodded, and I said, “Showtime, but remember that the easy missions are the ones that get screwed up. Treat this like we’re taking out bin Laden.”

  We avoided the lens of the far-side camera, then closed in to the wharf, walking down it like we belonged, which we most certainly did not. Pretending to be on a date did no good here, and Jennifer knew it. She put her hand inside her purse, where I knew a nasty little stiletto resided, and I said, “No lethal here.”

  She said, “I know, but it’s a pretty good intimidator.”

  We passed by the various warehouses and reached our target, a rolling door with a side entrance, a lone bulb illuminating the lock. I nodded at Jennifer, and she continued on, reaching the corner of the warehouse row and taking a knee.

  I turned my attention to the lock, pulling out Shoshana’s 3-D key, a bit of solidified plastic with a blob on one end sticking out from the blade. It looked like something a child had made dripping mud on a beach, but the end result mirrored the lock face. At least I knew it would pass through the keyset.

  I inserted it slowly, not wanting to cause a jam. It went all the way in, the unique sleeve for the secure feature of the lock defeated. I felt it seat and glanced down the wharf, seeing Jennifer scanning the area. She flicked her eyes to me, and I nodded, letting her know we were game on.

  I withdrew the key about an eighth of an inch, pulled a small rubber mallet from the cargo pocket of my pants, then tapped the key, twisting as soon as it seated. The lock refused to move.

  I took a breath, slid the key out again, and tapped once more, this time harder. No result. I knew I wasn’t hitting it hard enough, but I was worried about the strength of the key because it was really nothing more than layered plastic.

  Brett came over my earpiece, saying, “Are you fucking with me? You’ve got less than three minutes to get inside. I do not want to go physical here.”

  I said, “I’m working the problem. The lock isn’t releasing.”

  “Well, get it to release or back off. You’ve got two minutes and counting.”

  I hammered the key again, harder than I should have, and twisted. I felt the key break inside the lock but also felt the lock turn free. I said, “I’m in.”

  I entered the room, the darkness overpowering, but I could feel the space inside. I closed the door and pulled out a SureFire tactical flashlight. It blazed into existence, and I began stabbing the gloom with the sharp blade of light. I saw crate after crate of munitions, a veritable backlot on the set from an eighties action movie. I pulled out my phone and began recording, getting everything I saw in digits.

  I cracked open one of the crates, seeing a Sig Sauer MCX assault rifle. A true assault rifle, with the ability to selective fire between full automatic and single shot. A weapon that was made to achieve dominance, and not in a cheap way. I took a picture of the serial number and went further, looking for anything that smacked of nuclear devices.

  I found MC-4 parachutes, Belgian mini-grenades, door-breaching charges, and a ton of ammunition, but no indication that any of it had anything to do with nuclear weapons.

  Like I expected.

  I was about to tell the team I was coming out, when Jennifer came on: “Pike, Pike, this is Koko. There’s a group of three headed your way.”

  I said, “To me? Coming to me?”

  “I don’t know, but I think you tripped an alarm. The key wasn’t the only protection. They’re moving with a purpose. They just passed me. You’ve got about thirty seconds to get out, but you can’t come out the way you went in. Find another way, on the other side.”

  Holy shit.

  I ran to the far side, the dockside, looking for an escape. I found another rollup gate but nothing that would give me easy access to the walkway outside. There was no regular door on the dock front. I said, “I got nothing in here. Can you interdict?”

  Brett came on, saying, “I see them, and they’re not out for a stroll. They’re definitely on a mission.”

  I jerked the rollup door, getting no movement. It was locked tight, and even if it was the same key, mine was broken off inside the original door.

  I heard the men outside the door and grabbed a steel support beam, shimmying up it and launching myself higher, into the rafters. I balanced on a beam, then slid to the rear, pinning myself against the wall.

  They entered, flashlights spraying all over the place, but none up top. They wandered around a little bit, then began to leave. I heard one say something about a faulty alarm, and I hung tight, breathing a sigh of relief. Another said, “That jammed lock wasn’t faulty. Something’s going on. Someone was in here and might still be. Let’s search it for real. Find the lights to this place.”

  Christ.

  They stumbled around a bit, but nobody could seem to find the switch that would turn on the illumination. I knew they’d eventually locate me, with or without the overhead lights. I clicked my earpiece three times, the code for in trouble, need help now. Jennifer came back on, whispering, “I’m right outside. The walkway is clear. If I do something, it’s got to be contained inside. You want me to penetrate?”

  Brett said, “Stop, stop. Do nothing. There’s a cop car next to me, and it’s not a rent-a-cop
one. It’s real.”

  The men gave up on the light switch and began searching in earnest, all flashing their beams into every nook and cranny of the small warehouse, and occasionally shining them up. They went to the far side, and I took the moment to actually talk.

  I whispered, “Koko, go to Blood. Get out of the blast radius.”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “What? No way. I’m coming in.”

  I hissed, “Get your fucking ass out of here, now.”

  She said, “What are you going to do?”

  “Play a little Splinter Cell.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Brett got it immediately. He said, “Koko, come to me. Exfil now.”

  She said, “I’m coming, I’m coming. What about Pike?”

  The men came back toward my location, stabbing the darkness with their beams of light. I sized them up. There were three of them; two looked in shape, and one had a gut that was over his belt by about a foot. Probably the guy in charge.

  On the net, Brett said, “He’ll be just fine. You ever play the video game Splinter Cell?”

  I heard her huffing as she ran. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The men came directly below me.

  Brett said, “Trust me, Pike’s better than Sam Fisher. If he called it, he’ll be fine.”

  And I dropped from the ceiling, landing on top of Fat Man, driving him into the ground.

  The other two whirled toward me, their lights flashing like laser beams, stabbing all over the place, trying to find the essence of the violence in their midst.

  I snatched the light of the closest man before it highlighted me, seemingly out of thin air for the target who held it, and punched him straight in the throat, causing him to collapse, rolling on the floor and gasping with guttural spurts.

  I turned to the other man, who was now whipping his light around like he was schizophrenic, desperately trying to find the threat. I trapped the hand holding it, letting him know he’d found the bogeyman, and he freaked out, thrashing like a madman. He swung a hard left, and I ducked under it, still holding his hand, his body rotating from the blow. I swung around, jerking his hand up behind his back, then launched forward, snapping the gristle in his shoulder and driving him into the ground. He screamed and hit the concrete, softening the fall with his forehead. He quit fighting.