Jet closed her eyes as the truck neared in order to avoid destroying her night vision. When it growled to a stop by the abandoned Toyota, she dared a peek over the meter-high stone wall and watched as the doors on a newer four-wheel drive pickup opened and three men spilled from it, with another pair joining them from the truck bed – all with rifles. They took cautious steps, leading with their guns, until they were at the Toyota. They peered inside, and then one of them barked an unintelligible order and they split up to move on the buildings.
Two of the gunmen edged toward the right structure, one crept up the center, staying low, and the other pair inched toward where Salma was hiding. Jet waited, controlling her breathing to slow her heart rate, and when the two who approaching her were thirty meters away, she opened fire with the Heckler & Koch.
Her first rounds caught the nearest man in the chest and he fell backward with a scream. His companion’s reflexes were lightning fast, and her fire only grazed him as he threw himself to the side. He rolled when he hit the ground and was shooting before Jet could tag him. Most of his shots went wide, but enough of them pocked the wall that Jet ducked down, allowing him to expend his ammo shooting at shadows.
Salma’s AK rattled on continuous fire in six- and eight-round bursts, and Jet offered a silent plea to the universe that her shots were finding home. When the shooting from her target paused, Jet rolled a meter and poked her head and rifle over the wall. The gunman was changing magazines; the first well-placed round drilled through his skull just below his left eye, and the second shattered his jaw.
Answering fire from Mounir’s men barked at Salma, their muzzle flashes lighting the night as they pinned her down and pummeled the building with lead. An occasional single shot from her position told Jet that she’d switched from the ammo-wasting full auto to single fire, which meant she was still in the game.
Jet shifted her aim to where the lone middle gunman had been moments before, but she didn’t see him. A high-pitched ringing in her ears from the gunfire prevented her from being able to hear footfalls, so she rolled away from the wall and crawled toward the first of the buildings, grateful for her black clothes and the night camouflage they provided. She reached it and froze when the sour tang of dried sweat assaulted her – the man was only inches away around the corner, waiting for her or Salma to show themselves.
Jet drew her pistol and tossed it onto the dirt a few meters away. The sound of metal on dirt drew the man’s fire, and she rolled into view and stitched him from navel to throat, earning a bloodcurdling scream of pain as he crumpled and dropped his AK.
She ran to him and scooped up the assault rifle, reluctant to waste any more of her precious rounds, and after ejecting the half-spent magazine and replacing it with a new one from his satchel, made her way toward the building next to Salma’s as the firefight between the gunmen and Salma raged.
Jet darted between the buildings, and rounds ricocheted off the dirt where she’d been running in a crouch only moments before. She swore silently at the moonlight that had enabled her to drive but now leveled the playing field between the shooters and herself, and stopped at the far corner, where she could see Salma kneeling, breathing hard, the barrel of her rifle pointed at the sky as she waited for a lull in the fire to continue plinking at the gunmen. Jet waved at her to get her attention, but she was fully focused on her task.
Jet eyed the wall she was leaning against and saw that it was poorly crafted brickwork with mortar gaps wide enough to easily create fingerholds. She slid the H&K strap over her right shoulder and the AK over her left, and reached for the highest crevice she could. Her hands found holds, and she pulled herself up, using the toes of her boots to feel for holds, repeating the exercise until she’d hoisted herself over the roof lip and onto the flat surface.
She dog-crawled to the far edge and surveyed the area in front of the trucks. From the higher elevation she could easily make out the two remaining gunmen lying on the ground, the shot from her perch laughably easy at no more than fifteen meters. Jet slipped the AK strap from her shoulder and switched the firing selector to continuous fire, and after drawing a bead on the first man, squeezed off half the magazine and then peppered the second with the remainder, the wooden stock of the assault rifle slamming against her shoulder as it discharged its lethal load.
When the gun was empty, she stood and eyed the scene below for a moment before calling out to Salma.
“Game over. We win. You okay?”
“Yes. That’s all of them?”
“It is. I’ll be down in a second. In the meantime, gather up as many full mags as you can find and empty their wallets. Don’t leave anything we could use behind.”
Jet lowered herself from the roof and moved to inspect the truck the attackers had arrived in. It was also Japanese, a Nissan, but a different generation, with oversized tires and a heavy-duty suspension for serious off-roading. Salma arrived with an armful of magazines just as Jet turned the ignition key and the engine roared to life. She regarded the fuel gauge, which was two-thirds full, and turned to Salma.
“Which one’s Mounir?” Jet asked.
“None of them. He sent others to do his dirty work. Just like before. He’s a filthy coward at heart.”
“Most terrorists are,” Jet agreed. “That everything? I want to get out of here. Even in Libya, this much shooting’s going to draw attention.”
Salma nodded. “Everything I could find.”
“Then climb in and let’s get going. We’ll stick to dirt until we’ve gone a few kilometers. I don’t want to have to worry about running into any of Mounir’s friends.”
Jet walked to the old Toyota and scooped up the saddlebags, and returned to the truck to toss them into the cab by Salma’s feet. Salma held up a pair of binoculars and a wad of dollars and dinars. “We won’t starve. And the spyglasses may come in handy.”
“Good find.”
Jet hoisted herself into the driver’s seat, adjusted it, and jammed the transmission into gear. “We may be able to make it all the way to Tripoli without stopping for gas if I take it easy. We’ll see.”
“And then what?”
Jet opened her saddlebag and checked the sat phone. The battery indicator was dead, so the phone was going to be of little use to them until they could get somewhere to charge it.
“We’ll figure it out once we’re there. Anything’s got to be better than Sebha.”
Salma gave her a knowing look and a short, bitter laugh. “Damn right.”
Chapter 31
Jerusalem, Israel
The streets of the old city were bustling in the late morning as Yevgeni walked unhurriedly toward his meeting at a sidewalk café on the way to Temple Mount. Tourists with cameras hanging from their necks gaped at the ancient buildings and stopped to pose on the narrow streets as the tall Russian ambled by, his expression neutral, to any bystanders just another foreigner making a pilgrimage to some of the most sacred spots on the planet.
He’d spent the previous day contacting the three arms dealers he’d been given as reliable, and had set up the meeting after the Tel Aviv dealer hadn’t answered his phone. Yevgeni hated to drive to a different city and return carrying weaponry, but he’d seen no way around it and had resigned himself to losing yet another day securing what he’d need.
He rounded a corner and nearly ran headlong into a trio of Hassidic men arguing heatedly over something. They brushed by, barely registering him, and he smiled inwardly. He could have easily dispatched all three in as many seconds, but instead had slumped his shoulders and assumed a meek stance, his expression bewildered and unthreatening, and most importantly, completely unmemorable other than the pink hue of his skin from exposure to the Middle Eastern sun.
Yevgeni had been reluctant to speak on the phone, as had been the arms merchant, so they’d agreed on an in-person so he could tell the dealer what he wanted. He didn’t think getting the goods would be a problem – his agent had given this dealer his full endorsement, whe
reas the others had been recommendations from other independents who’d worked the area within the last couple of years.
He arrived at the café and smiled at a pair of young women, one of whom was chatting on her cell phone, the other engrossed in her own little screen, seemingly completely oblivious to each other as their coffee grew cold. Neither acknowledged him, which he saw as a positive – he normally drew a reasonable response from the opposite sex, but while on a job he deliberately dressed down and stuck to outdated sunglasses and cheap shirts – their lack of interest was a testament to the effectiveness of his disguise.
Yevgeni took a seat at one of the open tables and removed his green four-leaf-clover baseball hat, the agreed marker that the dealer would use to recognize him, and set it on the table. A waitress appeared from the doorway after a three-minute wait and greeted him in English, her tone as bored as only the young working in jobs far beneath their self-images could muster.
“I’ll take a double espresso,” he said after a glance at a menu card she handed him.
“Anything else?” she asked, as though his choice had already disappointed her.
“No, thank you,” he replied politely, his accent slight from years of careful practice, although his words were still tinged with the distinctive tonality of his native tongue.
She left to get his order, and he admired her charms as she strolled away, before returning his attention to the street. A pair of Japanese or Korean women walked by wearing ill-advised yoga pants and polyester multicolored tops, followed by a trio of schoolboys bickering as they hurried along. He removed his cell phone and set it beside the hat, and checked the time again on the screen. The man was now officially late – not an auspicious start to the new relationship.
Yevgeni’s coffee arrived with a whiff of floral perfume from the waitress, and then a septuagenarian with wisps of white hair poking out from beneath a beret pulled the chair opposite the Russian from beneath the table and sat down. He looked at the waitress as though a jeweler appraising a fine diamond, and gave her a wolfish grin.
“Cup of house blend, if it won’t break the bank,” he said.
The waitress rolled her eyes. “That’s it?”
“Unless you want to run off with me for the most disappointing eight minutes of your life.”
That drew a half smile and a wink. “Let me think about it. Hope you’re a big tipper.”
“Are you kidding? You’re lucky if I can cover my drink.”
When the girl left, the old man appraised Yevgeni, the warmth gone from his piercing blue eyes. “Glad to see you made it,” he said, and extended his hand in greeting.
“Likewise,” the Russian said, and took a sip of his espresso.
“Nice day, isn’t it? Days like this you can almost believe in your fellow man.”
“If you say so.”
The waitress returned with the dealer’s coffee and set it down without comment. Yevgeni handed her several bills and offered a smile. “Keep the change.”
She looked at the amount he’d given her and pursed her lips before muttering a thanks and returning inside. The dealer drained his coffee in two gulps and stood. “Thanks. Let’s stretch our legs.”
Yevgeni walked beside the old dealer as he led him along the narrow way.
“What do you call yourself?” the dealer asked.
“Joe.”
“Great. Nice to meet you, Joe. I’m Saul, which you know. What can I do you for?”
Yevgeni named a brand of handgun and a rifle that he knew would be readily available in Israel. “Fifty rounds for each. Spare mags. Suppressors for both. Something nondescript to carry them in.”
“You care about the origin?”
“Prefer if they’re virgin, although it’s not essential. But they have to be untraceable no matter what.”
Saul spread his hands. “Goes without saying.”
“Still, I did. So they have to be.”
Saul turned a corner and picked up his pace, moving surprisingly quickly for a man of his years. When he reached the doorway of a narrow home that looked like it dated back to Roman times, he turned to the Russian and named a price in euros and in dollars. Yevgeni nodded – it was at the high end of the expected range, but then again he wasn’t looking for a bargain.
“Perfect,” he said.
“Good. Then come in and I’ll show you the goods.”
The interior of the home was simple, the furniture well crafted but modest, the hallway’s smell musty and old – a fitting accompaniment to its owner. Saul guided him past a living room and kitchen to a service area with a garbage can, which he pushed aside to reveal a trapdoor in the floor.
Saul pointed at an iron ring imbedded in the wooden hatch. “Mind doing the honors? My back’s killing me.”
Yevgeni stepped forward, lifted the trapdoor, and a light clicked on below, revealing stairs leading into a basement. Saul motioned for the Russian to descend, and followed him down into a small chamber filled with dusty junk.
“This way,” he said, and crossed the room to a door by a rusting coat of medieval armor on a stand. He brushed part of a stained tapestry aside, revealing a retinal scanner, and leaned forward. A heavy bolt clunked inside the door, and he pushed it open and offered Yevgeni a small bow. “Welcome to my little shop of horrors,” he said, and flipped a light switch inside.
Glass cases lined the walls of a vault easily five times the size of the antechamber, filled with every imaginable variation of assault and sniper rifle on one side of the room and pistols on the other. Saul moved without hesitation to one of the displays and removed an IWI Jericho 941 pistol and tossed it to Yevgeni, who caught it and inspected it carefully.
“Semi-compact polymer,” Saul said. “9mm. Never been fired. More virgin than Joan of Arc.”
“Provenance?” Yevgeni asked.
“Went missing from a lot at the factory, and the serial number’s been acid-washed away.”
“Nice. I’ll take it. What about a suppressor?”
Saul bent and removed a tube from the bottom of the case. “Custom made by yours truly. Again, never used. Coupled with subsonic rounds, barely louder than a smoker’s cough.”
“I trust you have some of those?”
“Of course. Box of fifty. Two spare mags. You need more?”
Yevgeni shook his head. “That should do it. I’ll want to test fire it before paying.”
Saul nodded and indicated the door at the far end of the room. “I have a range set up. Soundproofed, although it wouldn’t matter with the suppressor.”
“What about the Tavor?”
Saul pointed at one of the other cases. “X95 380 with a MARS sight, chambered for 9mm. Lightly used as a demo model only. Also with a suppressor and a hundred rounds, although I can get you as many as you like. You don’t need to go subsonic with this one to fire quiet, although it would further silence it.”
“Let’s see it.”
Saul walked to the case and opened it, and removed the wicked-looking bullpup assault rifle. He gazed at it fondly for a second and then handed it to the Russian, who hefted it approvingly.
“Clean. Also sanitized?”
“Of course. Completely untraceable. Came from an armory nearby where goods have a habit of walking away.” Saul shrugged. “Human character is predictable. We’re all cast from imperfect clay.”
“Indeed.”
The shooting range turned out to be a fifteen-meter-long chamber carved from bedrock and lined with thick sound insulation. The air was dank and cool, and Yevgeni put both weapons through their paces with practiced efficiency before turning to Saul and nodding.
“As advertised. Let’s clean them up and get you paid.”
Back in the showroom, Yevgeni stripped the pistol first, cleaned and oiled it, and then did the same with the Tavor. Saul rummaged in a drawer and brought out a carton of subsonic 9mm rounds for the pistol and two boxes of standard 9mm Parabellum. He set them on the workbench and grinned expectantly.
“Handloaded by yours truly. And while I love my work, it doesn’t pay the bills,” Saul said. “This is the part I live for.”
The matter decided, Yevgeni withdrew an envelope stuffed with dollars and counted out five thousand in hundreds and handed them to the older man, who inspected each before folding the wad and putting it in his pocket.
Saul pointed at a pile of black nylon bags. “Pleasure doing business with you. There’s a duffle you can toss the gear into.”
Five minutes later Yevgeni was walking back to his car, toting the duffle and whistling softly. He checked his watch and shook his head – he wouldn’t be able to make it back to Tel Aviv in time to intercept the target today, but there was tomorrow to look forward to, and obtaining the right tools for the job was an essential part of any operation. At the car, he put the weapons in the trunk and closed it softly, and then slid into the driver’s seat, the outcome of his assignment now all but guaranteed.
Chapter 32
Tripoli, Libya
A crowd had gathered when word of Tariq’s imminent arrival had spread, and the streets leading into the city were filled with his gunmen and ordinary citizens, some with homemade signs with his name emblazoned on them, some with assault rifles waving in the air as they chanted his name. The main junction from the southern Gharyan Road was clogged with humanity, and those loyal to Tariq had sealed off the area so no rivals could take a potshot at their leader as he arrived. From near a fountain, long out of use, a group of youths dressed in castoffs, their faces dirty and hair slick with oil, cried his name with the fervor of true believers.
“Tariq Qaddafi! Tariq Qaddafi!”
The Qaddafi name, contrary to the Western media’s claims, resonated with a broad cross-section of Libya’s population, and the fact that Tariq was distantly related now served as his faction’s battle cry. Conditions in Libya had deteriorated precipitously since the revolution, largely funded by the CIA and carried out by hired mercenaries dubbed “freedom fighters” by the media for public consumption, and nostalgia was strong for the leader who had improved the standard of living for most in the country, providing every citizen with free health care and remarkable infrastructure projects that were now lying fallow.
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