Man of War

by Sean Parnell

  Steele checked his watch. It was exactly 11:30. Right on time.

  Two men got out, and the one from the front moved back and pressed his butt against the passenger door. The second man posted up on the street, hand inside his jacket. They were pros. Steele could tell that much by the way they handled the street.

  Julian Burrows stepped out of the SUV without a care in the world. He popped his jacket, making a big show of the gold on his wrist. He was a small man, with stooped shoulders, and despite the half-million-dollar bounty on his head, he still dressed like a 1980s pimp with a red silk shirt open at the collar.

  “You’d think a guy like that would try to keep a low profile,” Demo said.

  Burrows had started out as a Ukrainian pimp before graduating to trafficking cocaine and heroin from Afghanistan. He’d been a pissant before the dope, not even a blip on Steele’s radar, but then he started moving weapons.

  Should have brought the rifle up with me, Steele thought as he waited for Demo to run the man’s face through the facial recognition program. I could hit him right here, and by the time the check cleared I’d be in Ibiza, sipping mai tais on the beach.

  “It’s him,” Demo said.

  That was all Steele needed to hear. He returned to the Mercedes, moved to the rear bumper, and popped the trunk. It bounced open an inch, the light revealing a man with duct tape over his mouth.

  “Easy there, Hamid,” Steele said in Arabic, making sure the owner of the Mercedes saw the pistol before opening the trunk all the way. “If I take the tape off are you going to play by the rules this time?”

  The man cursed at him through the tape, but changed his tune when Steele looked like he was going to shut the trunk.

  “Well, what’s it gonna be?”

  Hamid shook his head up and down, an awkward movement considering the size of the trunk. It reminded Steele of a dog hamming it up for a treat. “You sure?”

  The Arab tried to talk, but it sounded like a string of vowels because of the tape. Steele reached in and ripped it free so he could understand what the Arab was saying.

  “I couldn’t understand you,” he said, shaking the duct tape by way of explanation.

  “I said,” Hamid began a bit too forcefully. He paused, taking the hint from the ice in Steele’s jade eyes, and adjusted his tone. “I apologize for hitting you with the lamp.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Steele lifted the man out of the trunk with one hand and set him on the bumper. At his height, Steele was careful to appear unimposing. It was a skill drilled into him during training. He had his tailor cut his jackets wide in the shoulders to hide his bulk and keep his gun from printing. But the camouflage was only skin deep, and wouldn’t hold up to the trained eye. No matter how he walked or what he wore, there was no hiding the fact that he was a hunter.

  “So Burrows and Ronna in the same place, that’s a thousand to one odds. Tell me what I’m not seeing, Hamid.”

  “I told you what I know.”

  Steele believed him and pushed the pistol into the front of his pants, cholo style. He slipped a blade from his pocket and held it up, looking into Hamid’s eyes for any sign of deceit. It didn’t matter if the man was lying or not, Steele realized as he cut his bonds, because he already had his orders.

  He slipped the knife away, and when his hand came back into view there was a roll of cash. Hamid might be a piece of crap, but the man had a wife and a kid on the way. Steele knew firsthand what it was like to grow up without a father. His dad had walked out when he was nine, forcing his mom to work two jobs just to keep a roof over his head. It wasn’t a life he would wish on his worst enemy.

  “Get your wife the hell out of Beirut before that baby is born,” Steele hissed.

  Hamid obviously hadn’t expected to be let go, and the relief was evident on his face, but the fact that Steele was helping him was too much for the man to bear. Tears formed at the edges of his eyes and his voice broke with emotion.

  “I thought you were going to kill me,” he said, taking the money.

  “Give me a break. If I killed everyone who hit me with a lamp, I wouldn’t have any friends left.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” Demo remarked.

  Steele muted the earpiece and grabbed a duffel bag from the trunk. He tossed Hamid the keys and walked back to the building to get ready. He took off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled an ultra-thin Kevlar vest over his well-muscled torso. He cinched it tight, hearing the Mercedes start up outside.

  Steele was under no illusions about what was waiting for him inside the bar. Men like Ronna and Julian Burrows were killers, and Jean-Luc, the man who owned the club, would do whatever it took to protect his clients. Steele knew that if he wasn’t on his game there was a good chance he wouldn’t make it out alive.

  He stuck his left arm through the loop of a bungee sling and stretched it across his back. At one end there was a magazine pouch; on the other hung a Brügger & Thomet MP9. The machine pistol weighed less than three pounds and even with the built-in suppressor was only ten inches in length. It fit perfectly beneath his arm, but Steele knew that it wouldn’t slip the notice of the security guards at the door.

  Finally he put his blazer back on and stuffed a can of CS, the military’s name for tear gas, and two Belgian mini grenades into the hidden pockets sewn inside. He took the wireless headset controller out of his pocket and unmuted it. The device was built to look like a key fob, complete with a silver Toyota emblem on the back. Using the fob, Steele unmuted the earpiece and stepped outside.

  “Loop the security channel onto frequency two,” he said. There was a moment of silence.

  “You’re hot,” Demo replied.

  The secondary channel was “listen only,” which meant that Steele could hear the guards’ conversation through the earpiece but it would disappear anytime he or Demo transmitted over channel one.

  “Got it. Here we go,” he said.

  Steele skipped the line, angling for the guards at the top of the stairs. One was patting down a man in a tuxedo with an ease borne of thousands of repetitions. But Steele was fixated on the second guard, a bald man standing next to the red door. The golden emblazoned dragon winked from the lights above.

  The guard’s name was Felix, and the bald ex-Legionnaire watched Eric’s approach with a flat expression. Steele knew he was committed now. There was no turning back.

  Time to play the game, he told himself.

  When Felix waved him forward, Steele stepped up, hands raised and painfully aware of the MP9 under his arm.

  “I’m with the band,” he said in French, flashing the second guard a toothy grin.

  The man grunted. Steele kept his eyes on Felix, tensing when the second guard ran his hands over his sport coat. He felt Steele’s weapon and took a tiny step back, his hand reaching for the pistol inside his own jacket.

  “Easy,” Steele warned, his jade eyes cutting and cold.

  There was no doubt in his mind what would happen if Felix didn’t step in very soon. He might get some of them, but in the end Steele knew he’d lose.

  “Hey, baldy, you going to put a leash on your mutt?” he asked Felix.

  The second guard snarled, and Steele saw the pistol coming out. It was now or never.

  Chapter 3

  100 miles south of Tunis

  Nestled among the boulders, beneath a section of camo netting, Nathaniel West watched the highway through his night vision scope. The road looked like a gray ribbon laid over black scrub brush and green sand, and every time a car passed, West had to take his eyes out of the scope to keep from being blinded.

  As was the case with the rest of the cars he had seen since getting into position, by the time the Citroën’s headlights found the bend in the road, the driver had to slam on his brakes to keep the tires on the asphalt.

  It was the perfect kill zone.

  West rested his scarred chin on the buttstock of the Barrett .50 cal and savored the breeze that blew in f
rom the desert. I bet it’s beautiful in the daylight.

  The radio came to life with a flash of static.

  “Road Runner to Coyote.”

  “Go for Coyote,” his spotter, Peter Villars, answered.

  West didn’t notice the rush of blood coursing through his veins until his face got hot. Most of the nerve endings had been burned away on the left side of his body, but he could still feel the right side of his face.

  There was only one reason why the observation post he’d set two miles down the road would break radio silence. The target vehicles were in sight. He had to give it to Commander Massi. That jundi of his really did have a gift. Everything was coming together, just like he said it would.

  “Coyote, target in sight.”

  West smiled, a rare moment of emotion that, because of the scarring, looked more like a grimace in the green light spilling from the night vision optic. In the last three days he had achieved the impossible. Not only had he played the CIA, but he had manipulated the Program into sending his old protégé to Beirut. The best part was that they had no idea.

  “Roger that,” Villars said before reaching into his pocket and extracting a wadded-up hundred-dollar bill. West reached for it, but at the last second Villars pulled it back an inch and said, “Double or nothing Steele’s a no-show.”

  West’s grimace shifted into a full-on grin. “It’s your money,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, like the rumble of thunder on the horizon. He plucked the cash from the man’s fingers and shoved it into his back pocket.

  “What time is it?”

  “Twenty-three thirty.”

  Right on cue the Iridium satellite phone in West’s pocket rang. He had the backlight turned all the way down so it wouldn’t give away his position. “I wonder who that could be?” he asked with a theatrical smile.

  “Damn.”

  “Oh, hey, Felix,” West said in French, playing it up to the discomfort of his spotter. “You don’t say.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and whispered, “Eric Steele just showed up at the Dragon’s Door. What are the chances of that happening?”

  “Shit,” Villars swore.

  West went back to the phone. “Felix, be a dear and make sure he doesn’t leave. Give Jean-Luc my regards while you’re at it.”

  There was another rustle of cash and West put the bill with its partner. “Easy money.”

  He pulled the Barrett .50 cal toward him, while his spotter settled behind the thermal scope set up on the tripod. West adjusted the focus knob, maxing out the magnification, pressed his chest to the ground, and opened his legs until they formed a V behind him.

  “Spotter up.”

  “Stand by,” West muttered.

  The road had been built atop a thick layer of gravel and the edges sloped down on each side. His men had hammered a series of range stakes into the low ground on the left side of the road. They were a hundred meters apart, and every other stake had a blue ribbon tied to the top that fluttered in the wind. The Barrett had an effective range of 2,000 yards and the last stake was set at 800—a chip shot for the powerful rifle.

  “I’m on the 8,” he said.

  They had preset the routine earlier in the day and both men agreed that ambushing the lead vehicle at an assigned range was the best course of action.

  “Wind out of the east—full value.”

  “Check.”

  West had spent a lot of time behind “the glass” and knew the power wind had over ballistics. During the day he could have used the heat shimmering off the asphalt, what snipers called mirage. It was the same phenomenon you experienced when driving on a hot summer day. But at night he had to use the flags.

  As a child, West remembered a road trip with his parents from Colorado to California. In the desert the heat made it look like there was water on the road, and he was always disappointed when the old station wagon passed the spot and it was dry.

  When the lead vehicle appeared in the upper edge of his scope he adjusted for both wind and distance.

  Aim small, miss small, he said to himself.

  He had less than thirty seconds to finish his ritual. Using his toes, West loaded the bipod, pushing his body tight into the buttstock. He set his cheek on the rest, locked into the gun, his body set up to absorb the recoil.

  His mind calculated the data needed to put a 750-grain armor-piercing bullet into the bow tie affixed to the grille. Hitting a target the size of a coffee can was hard enough. When the target was moving at 80 miles per hour West knew he had to be right on the money. He focused on breathing normally—even breaths in and out. The reticle was locked in high and to the right of the spot he actually wanted to put the bullet, and then he flicked the safety off with his thumb.

  “Package identified. He is in the rear passenger seat.”

  West picked up the first of the three vehicles in his scope.

  “Cleared hot in five, four, three . . .”

  He wasn’t thinking anymore. His mind was clear, and as he settled into the rhythm of his spotter’s count his finger closed on the trigger. “Smooth, smooth,” he said to himself, applying more and more pressure to the trigger.

  At the bottom of his exhale the target vehicle appeared in his crosshairs. The big gun bucked to life, recoil shoving the rifle back into his shoulders, and with no place to go the muzzle traveled skyward. West lost the sight picture for a second even though his face never left the stock. His right hand worked the bolt, snapping the handle up and ripping it to the rear. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the expended brass cartwheel from the gun. He was already shoving the bolt forward, stuffing a fresh round into the chamber.

  By the time he got back on target the API, or armor-piercing incendiary, round had reached the end of its one-way trip. It exploded in a flash of light, the bonded core howling through the engine block like a freight train with a full head of steam. It punched through, ripping pistons and shearing cams, and still had enough velocity to blast through the firewall before dropkicking the driver in the pelvis.

  The report bounced over the countryside, the sign for his men to engage. A nearside machine gun, nestled in a copse of boulders, opened up on the lead vehicle. The M240 Bravo chewed through the belt of 7.62 ammo. It fired a standard four-to-one mix, four steel-jacketed rounds per every tracer, and the six-second burst sounded like a buzz saw going off. The tracers hit the side of the vehicle and ricocheted skyward, a flicker of orange. The gunner worked the rounds across the door panel, killing the driver and sending the truck headlong into the desert. It didn’t get far.

  The driver of the rear vehicle slammed on the brakes. He turned the wheel to avoid the SUV stalled in front of him, but he wasn’t fast enough to outrun the AT4 that screamed in from the road. The 84mm rocket crossed the distance in less than the blink of an eye, turning the SUV into a rolling fireball.

  “Well, that escalated quickly,” West said.

  Four men dressed in plate carriers and carrying rifles rushed the target vehicle, a pair of jeeps bumping into view behind them. West grabbed his rifle while Villars took down the camo net.

  “Jackpot. I repeat, Jackpot,” a voice said over the radio.

  West slung the Barrett and shot Villars a smile. “Let’s go grab our nuke,” he said before heading down the hill to join the rest of his team.

  Chapter 4

  Beirut

  Eric Steele felt the seconds stretching into hours. Felix just stared at him. He was imposing and dark, dressed in a black suit, the only spot of color coming from the long white scar that hooked over a mangled ear, down the side of his face, and into his shirt.

  “C’est bon—it’s good.” Felix finally nodded.

  Steele let out a sigh of relief and stepped past the guard.

  “I wish I could say it was good to see you,” Felix said, opening his arms.

  “I get that a lot.” Steele’s hand slipped into his pocket, emerging with a black felt bag. The two men embraced, and Steele passed him the bag. “Played t
hat one to the very end, didn’t you?”

  “Least I could do for a friend,” the Algerian hissed, not an ounce of warmth in the words.

  They both knew why Steele was here.

  Felix bounced the payment in his palm, eyebrows arching as he took in the weight and then with a nod slipped it away.

  “You need to go, now,” Steele said.

  “I have a wife. Jean-Luc will find me.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about him.”

  Felix’s eyes sparked with a feral glint.

  Steele tightened his grip on the man’s arm. “But before you do anything stupid, I want you to realize that there is no reason for your wife to become a widow tonight. You leave now and you will never see me again. But if you stay . . .”

  The silence was deafening, heavy with the promise of violence that emanated like a live wire between the two men. Felix was the first to blink.

  “C’est la vie,” he said with a Gallic shrug. That’s life.

  “You got that right.”

  Steele forced him out of the way, grabbed the door’s golden handle, and stepped inside. He found himself in the entryway, lights and sound pouring from the crack at the bottom of the door. He took a deep breath and stepped in.

  What he saw inside made sensory overload feel like a decaf latte, and he moved out to the side and scanned his surroundings. The house lights were turned low over the dance floor, which was about the same size as a 7-Eleven parking lot. Every inch was crammed with sweat-soaked bodies jumping, grinding, and bouncing in time with what Steele assumed was music.

  The bass from the subwoofer reverberated off the far wall and palm-heeled him square in the chest. Ultraviolet lights strobed on and off, while green lasers oscillated through the fog rising around the DJ booth. A shirtless Arab hunched over a mixing board presided over the masses. He drove the music to a shrill crescendo, and when it could go no higher, he threw his hands into the air and screamed.