On the surface, things appeared to be more settled than any other time Leon had found himself in the country, though, compared to most Western countries, settled wasn’t a term many would use to describe the current situation in Somalia.
Over the years, Al-Shabab had and continued to strike against the African Union’s peacekeepers and their attempts to eradicate the splinter cell for good. Despite more than twenty thousand African troops and allied support from Western governments, the terrorists still carried out horrific attacks on a regular basis, sometimes killing hundreds at a time. The government called their slew of suicide bombings a clear sign of desperation, which wasn’t a lie.
Yes, the weakening Al-Shabab were desperate, but if Leon had learned one thing about terrorist groups, it was that they could be patient. Very patient.
While the government was busy trying to deal with the distraction of the constant attacks, a growing subset of militants sat and waited for their time to strike. The man in charge of said subset was Yasir Osman.
When the orders for the mission reached his new desk, Leon could have sent one of the many agents he now outranked. Taking over Bishop’s role as chief hadn’t been a decision he’d made lightly but, after what happened with his former boss, someone had to step up. Someone people knew and looked up to, according to Director General Grace Helmsley, who’d offered him the job. While flattered by the uncharacteristic praise from his superior, in the end, it came down to trust. Leon no longer trusted anyone around him to be in charge of the Unit. Not with Maggie gone, Bishop dead, and the turncoat Nina on the run.
Checking his watch, Leon made the final preparations for what he planned to be his last day of his long mission. It was time to end it.
The few belongings he’d amassed were already stowed away in one of the jeeps, the keys to which sat in the pocket of his cargo pants. Provisions mostly—clothes, water, some food, and all the guns he could steal without them being missed.
Leon slipped a large and freshly sharpened serrated knife into his waistband and made sure to untie the laces of his boots. He only had one shot, and nothing could go wrong.
He paced around in the small confines of his spartan room, counting down the minutes. Yasir kept to a schedule, a mistake for anyone with a target on their back, and this was the first opportunity Leon had had in the four weeks he’d been around the man. Four weeks of watching and waiting for the right time to act. It was now or never.
It wasn’t until Yasir murdered three British soldiers, here to train and help the Somalian military and their affiliates eliminate Al-Shabab, that the Unit was called upon to take the man out. He was becoming more brazen as his numbers and strength grew, ordering a tirade of attacks over the last few months, growing hungrier to prove himself. Any hope Somalia had of lasting peace couldn’t be achieved with Yasir Osman alive. He posed too much of a threat, which was why Leon found himself undercover in the man’s compound.
Slipping out of his room, Leon walked as casually as he could across the inner courtyard of the large estate that housed almost forty men who’d offered themselves to Yasir’s call to arms. While most of Yasir’s soldiers continued with the charade of their normal lives, going to work each day and biding their time until orders were sent by their leader to be his willing puppets, Yasir kept a solid detail of his closest and most trusted disciples around him.
It was quickly approaching midday, and the sun grew blistering hot in the cloudless sky, sending trickles of sweat down Leon’s back. The air was humid, and it had taken him a while to acclimatize, being used to the mild, rainy British weather. His struggles with the heat didn’t compromise his cover, though. If anything, it helped it and allowed him to joke with the resident soldiers who jovially teased him about it.
Two of the men passed Leon and stopped for a quick chat before rushing to their rooms in time to pray and then sleep. Their shift in the watchtower was over while the next pair took their rotational shift. Yasir was paranoid, and rightly so. He just didn’t know the enemy would come from the inside.
Penetrating Osman’s inner circle hadn’t been easy. In conjunction with the Somali government, who already had a man on the inside, they had developed a story to get Leon in.
It wasn’t too far from the truth, which always made for the best kind of cover. The Somali’s mole had told Yasir of his cousin, who immigrated with his wife to London in search of a better life years before. Having made something of themselves with a successful business, they had the available funds to help Osman’s plight, as well as a willing soldier in their one and only son.
Leon’s parents were Nigerian, and though they’d worked hard all their days, they were far from wealthy until he had been able to support them on his agent salary. Still, with such an offer dangled in front of Yasir, he had agreed to both the cash and the new recruit. He was happier about one of those gifts than the other and had given Leon quite the rundown in questioning before allowing him to stay in the compound.
All of his soldiers had to prove themselves. For Yasir, that could be done one of two ways: action or money. Most of Osman’s soldiers had gone the first route, either eager to fight or unable to come up with enough money to satisfy him. While Leon’s choice wasn’t viewed as the bravest option, a terrorist cell couldn’t operate without cold, hard cash, and Yasir’s existing financial backer was running dry after forking out the funds to keep the compound running and the soldiers armed with weapons and explosives.
Once Yasir seemed satisfied with him, helped along by Leon’s faked fanaticism and speaking both fluent Somali and Arabic, he was welcomed into the fold. Ever since then, he’d been impatiently waiting for the right moment to carry out orders.
Walking through the courtyard, Leon ducked into the private quarters afforded to Osman for being the one in charge. The Dhuhr prayer was just about to begin, and a bell sounded through the compound in reminder. During Leon’s residence, Yasir had always prayed with his two bodyguards who never left his side.
Leon had heard around the compound from the other soldiers that Yasir had lost his patience with them the day before, declaring their breathing far too loud for him to concentrate on his prayers. The resulting shift in Yasir’s usual schedule was the perfect chance for Leon to reach him unguarded. With his bodyguards relegated to a room down the hall during prayer times and everyone else taking part in the noon prayer, Osman was alone.
The main hallway of Yasir’s private rooms was silent, the ringing of the bell the only thing accompanying Leon’s drumming heartbeat in his ears. He slipped his feet out of his boots and padded down the wooden floor the rest of the way, making use of the Afghan rugs to soften any noise his large and muscled frame might make.
The element of surprise was vital for a job like this. Shooting his target, even with a silencer, would cause too much noise and raise the alarm too early for him to make any attempt at an escape. Having to rely on a knife meant getting up close and personal with Osman; he’d have to do it before the man could call for help.
Yasir’s room was just a few feet away, and anticipation sparked inside Leon like electricity, pumping adrenaline through his veins the same way an impending hit always stirred within him.
“Assad? What are you doing here?” a voice demanded behind him, calling him by his mission alias.
Leon froze and turned on his heels to discover who had caught him in Yasir’s out-of-bounds quarters.
Tahiil Osman stood with arms crossed as he waited for an answer, brows burrowed to the center of his forehead.
Bloody hell.
With a deep breath, Leon plastered on an innocent face and smiled at Yasir’s younger brother. “I have a message for Yasir.”
Tahiil eyed Leon’s bare feet. “And this message can’t wait until after Dhuhr?”
Leon sighed inwardly, glad for Wudhu, the ritualistic washing of hands, feet, arms, and legs before prayer that could explain his lack of shoes. “It’s important.”
“Then tell me, and I’ll pass
it along to my brother after prayers,” Tahiil replied, doing little to hide his distaste.
Leon had tried to befriend the younger man, but he took any praise Yasir sent Leon’s way as a personal slight, especially after his mess-up during their last outing to the capital.
“Yasir said all information should be taken straight to him,” Leon reminded him, a strict rule that had been enforced after a miscommunication on Tahiil’s part almost got Yasir assassinated two weeks into Leon’s stay. Leon hadn’t been present, but Yasir was furious when they returned. He beat Tahiil within an inch of his life.
Yasir had taken to mostly ignoring his brother since then, deciding to forgo the usual punishment of death that would result in such a mishap from any other soldier. Leon often wondered if Tahiil would have accepted death easier than being shunned by his brother. He idolized him in an almost religious way, having been raised by Yasir after their parents were murdered in an air strike.
Mistrust shadowed Tahiil’s face, shrouding his features with an almost sinister glare. “Then, by all means, let’s go see him.”
All Leon could do was agree. Turning around, he knocked on Yasir’s door as quietly as he could without seeming suspicious. The last thing he wanted was to raise the attention of the guards down at the opposite end of the rooms. Now he would need to take both brothers out and be quick about it.
Leon took in Tahiil’s slight but athletic frame and considered the threat level. Yasir was bigger and stronger than his sibling, but Tahiil would be faster and would sacrifice himself willingly to protect his brother if it came to it. He’d take him out first before focusing on Yasir and hope the extended time wouldn’t result in the bodyguards being alerted. If that happened, his already slim chances of a clean escape were ruined.
“Come in,” Yasir called, frustration clear in his sharp, impatient tone.
Leon turned the handle and stepped inside, already reaching for his knife with his free hand.
Tahiil stepped in behind him and closed the door before Leon noticed the guards.
Four of them, two on top of Yasir’s usual pair, pounced from all angles. Leon spotted Yasir Osman in the far corner, watching with a hard face and dangerous eyes as his men attacked.
Hands grabbed behind him, and Leon only had time to ram his head back and smash it against Tahiil’s nose before four sets of fists slammed into him from all over. Tahiil swore as blood flowed like a river out of his nose, but Leon found no satisfaction in the sight.
Bringing him to his knees, the guards forced his head up to face their leader and pinned him into an unbreakable position while they disarmed him of his concealed knife.
Yasir stepped forward and stared down his nose at his captive. “Nice try, Leon Frost, but not good enough.”
Chapter 7
London, Great Britain
* * *
Maggie slammed a fist on the desk and swore a diatribe of fear and frustration.
“Calm down, Agent,” Helmsley ordered. They were back at Unit HQ, and Grace had just returned from being briefed by her agents, keeping Maggie waiting for her in Bishop’s old office like a headmistress would a naughty child.
“I’m not an agent anymore.” The urge to tear things apart coursed through her shaken nerves, growing stronger with each minute that passed. Leon was out there somewhere, and his cover was blown.
Helmsley sat down and busied herself with her tablet, the epitome of calm and control. “Punching things won’t help.”
“It usually does,” Maggie grumbled and slumped down on a chair. Grace was right. Smashing up Leon’s unused office wouldn’t help him. “Play the video.”
Helmsley obliged.
Like the one shown to Maggie yesterday, the unknown girl appeared in front of a camera. She appeared much the same as she had in the other clip, though the palpable fear that emanated from her was now mixed with something else. It lay behind her eyes, just a glint of it. Defiance.
The girl held up a picture in her hand, and Maggie felt the blood drain from her face. Seeing Leon’s face only made it that much more real, the weight of the situation crashing into her like a tidal wave that threatened to send her emotions over the edge. Maggie clenched her teeth and willed the tears forming in her eyes not to fall. Not in front of the Director General.
“This is Secret Agent Leon Frost. He is currently stationed in a covert operation in Somalia to gain intelligence on a splinter cell of Al-Shabab. Under the guise of the son of Somali nationals, he will attempt to insert himself into the group and report back anything that can aid in the assassination of the cell’s leader, Yasir Osman.”
Venom laced the girl’s words, her voice shaking in anger now as well as the fear that had been there in the first video. Maggie couldn’t help but wonder how long that would last before Ivan’s men beat or raped it out of her. Of how they would view her strong will as a challenge, a game they would take great pleasure in winning.
“This information has been passed on to Yasir Osman’s militia group. The longer you continue to ignore our demands, the more agents we will compromise. Release Ivan Dalca before another of your agents loses their life.”
Helmsley closed the video as the girl repeated the demands.
Maggie worried at her nails, chipping the polish from them. “Have you made contact with him yet?” Being mid-mission in Somalia explained why she hadn’t heard from Leon. For all Maggie knew, he was unaware of the hack.
“It’s not that simple,” Helmsley said.
“Explain.”
“The parameters of the mission changed once Agent Frost got there. Initially, he was to gather intel as the video said, but he had managed to infiltrate the cell deeper than we had hoped.”
Damn Leon. He always was too good at his job.
“What is the mission now?”
“He managed to work his way into the inner circle of the cell’s leader, Yasir Osman. In his last report, Frost spoke of being invited to Osman’s compound out in the sticks. It was an opportunity we couldn’t squander.”
Maggie’s eyed widened. “He’s going to try to take the man out? In his own compound?”
She was all for taking risks; it was part of the job description. But the risks taken should be calculated ones, and no matter how much the government wanted this Yasir Osman dead, Leon knew better than to throw himself into such confined danger. It wasn’t like him.
“Leon assured me he was capable of the task.”
Leon was capable. Of that, Maggie had no doubt. He’d kill his target, and efficiently, too. It was his escape plan that concerned Maggie. In her experience, compounds were fortresses—secluded, heavily guarded, and filled with the enemy.
“When was that?” she asked. If luck was on their side, Leon could have carried out his mission by now and would be making his way home imminently.
“Four weeks ago.”
Maggie closed her eyes. Four weeks was a long time for a hit. By nature, they were in-and-out jobs. It didn’t do to linger after assassinating someone. Once the kill was made, you got out. Complications sometimes arose. Nothing ever went strictly to plan. Perhaps Leon hadn’t been able to get as close as he’d initially thought. Or maybe his attempt at ending his target had failed.
Maggie didn’t allow herself to ponder that option too long. “And nothing from him since then?”
“No,” Helmsley said. “Being in so deep, communication has been suspended until Agent Frost makes contact.”
Maggie didn’t like it, but she understood. Any attempts the Unit made to reach Leon could blow his cover. Not that it mattered now.
“Make contact now,” Maggie insisted, conscious of each and every second they wasted talking. “Get him out before he’s exposed.”
Helmsley took a deep breath, the shake in it the only crack in her otherwise composed exterior. “We can’t.”
“You mean you won’t,” Maggie retorted, leaning over the desk.
“We don’t have that kind of power over there,” Helmsley
snapped. “Agent Frost knew that going in.”
“So, he’s on his own? Just another expendable asset that can be replaced? Collateral damage?”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.”
The disaster with Bishop had helped Maggie see the Unit for what it really was. Ashton had been right all those years ago when he got out. The agency’s agents weren’t people. They were property, just like Ivan’s trafficked girls. Assets. They targeted Maggie when she was desperate, as they had done most of the other agents. Young and impressionable, they were molded into killers who could take orders without question and sent out to risk their lives time and time again.
Helmsley rose from her chair and glared down at her. “Don’t you dare for a second think that I don’t care about my agents. I chose Frost as my new chief.”
“Yet you let him go on the mission,” Maggie said, kicking her chair back and rising, too. “Bishop was never deployed on any jobs when he had the position.”
“Frost’s skill set made him perfect for the brief. You know that as much as I do. He fit the profile for the kind of man we needed. He insisted he be the one to go.”
“You could have sent Yonas Ibori.” Maggie couldn’t recall if he spoke Somali, but she knew for a fact he could at least speak Arabic.
The Unit liked to keep more than one asset of a particular type. Whenever Maggie was tied up on a job, Nina would be sent instead of her. As they were both white women and fluent in Russian, this kept them busy. Yonas and Leon were the same. Their African heritage was used to the Unit’s advantage, both men finding themselves on the continent more than the likes of Maggie.
“Ibori’s on paternity leave. He and his husband adopted a little girl last month.”
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