False Flag

by F. W. Rustmann Jr.

  She worked the slide of her Glock 17, confirmed she had a full magazine and a round in the chamber, screwed the suppressor on the barrel, and tucked the long gun into her shoulder holster. She double-checked her backup Glock 43 in the same manner and slipped it back into her ankle holster.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  CHAPTER 69

  MacMurphy came out of the bedroom wearing his black dishdasha robe and kufi hat. Underneath the man-dress, he wore a Kevlar vest. A suppressed H&K .45 was holstered at his hip. As he walked, he carried the two POF-416 automatic sub-machine guns, night-vision gear, and communicators.

  He handed one of the rifles to Santos and said, “You’d better keep this close while you’re watching your favorite movie.”

  Surprised, Santos looked up from the monitor and said, “You’re not going out there, are you?”

  “I’m not going to leave you in here unprotected.” He handed Santos his communicator. “Stick this in your ear as well. Keep me informed on what’s going on and I’ll do the same for you. I’ll be across the street where I can keep the house in view. We’ll have Abu Salah surrounded if he comes back here tonight.

  They did a quick commo check before MacMurphy slipped out through the sliding glass doors. As an afterthought, he poked his head back into the house and said, “Better lock this door behind me, Culler. We don’t want to make it easy for him.”

  MacMurphy slipped out of the house again, hurried past the lighted pool deck, and stepped through the gate that led to the driveway and garage. At the end of the driveway, he hesitated for a moment beside Kashmiri’s car. Then, confident the coast was clear, he darted across the street in a low crouch and disappeared into the underbrush.

  Before he went too far, MacMurphy slipped on night-vision goggles and tested the green line of his POF. Satisfied that everything was working well, he moved quietly through the thick underbrush like a hunter stalking a deer. Several minutes later, he arrived near the side of the road. The position was farther south than his entry point, and it gave him a view of Kashmiri’s car as well as the side and front entrances of the house.

  He dropped down into the prone position, pushed himself under a bush, and sighted his rifle at the house, testing his field of fire. The green line danced from the Toyota in the driveway, across the sliding glass doors leading to the pool and patio and around the corner of the house to the front door. Confident that he was in a good position, he settled in for the long wait.

  Twenty minutes later, Abu Salah stepped out of his taxi on the outskirts of Strovolous—about two miles north of Kashmiri’s home. He was dressed in dark, western-style clothing and carried his .38 snub-nosed revolver in his right pants pocket. Night had fallen, but the glow of a half-moon gave him enough light to find his way through the deserted Nicosia streets to his target.

  He was a simple man and his plan reflected this mentality. He would find a hiding place near the driveway and wait for Kashmiri to emerge from the house. Then he would empty his .38 into his target and disappear into the brush of the Pedieos streambed. From there he would make his way north back into central Nicosia and the fleabag hotel where he was staying.

  As Abu Salah walked through the streets, the Iranian drove his rented dark green Ford Focus along the Pedieos stream for one last pass by Kashmiri’s house. He and his passenger noted that the lights were on throughout the house and that Kashmiri’s car sat in the driveway.

  It was 9:37 p.m.

  They turned right onto Kanari Street, drove past the front of the house, and circled back to a spot about one hundred meters north of Kashmiri’s house. There he let the woman out on the side of the road. She immediately disappeared into the underbrush of the Pedieos streambed, running low like a ninja. Moments later the Iranian’s earbud came alive. “I will let you know when I am in position. You can move out of the area but don’t go too far.”

  “Okay,” he replied. “Good hunting . . .”

  MacMurphy made a mental note of the green Ford Focus that had passed by twice in the past few minutes. However, he failed to notice that there were two occupants in the car during the first pass and only one during the second pass. He also didn’t see the dark figure who had snuck onto Kashmiri’s property and crouched in the shadow of the garage, which was two meters away from the right front wheel of the Toyota.

  But Santos did.

  MacMurphy’s earbud came alive. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “Someone slipped out of the shadows and huddled at the corner of the garage. Looks like he’s settling in. I think it’s our guy.”

  MacMurphy scanned the driveway and garage area with his riflescope. “I can’t see him.”

  “Well I can. You’ve got to admit these cameras of mine work great.”

  “Another first. What do you want to do?”

  “Cover me. I’m going around the back to sneak up behind him. If he squirts out the front, he’s yours.”

  “Roger that. But do me a favor and wear your vest.”

  “Yeah, yeah . . .”

  Santos grabbed his night-vision goggles and POF before donning his Kevlar vest. He checked the monitor one last time before slipping out the front door. Keeping in the shadows, he moved stealthily down to the corner and around the back of the house. When he got to the far end, he dropped down into the prone position and peered around the corner. The guy was still there at the far end of the house, sitting with his back to the garage, peering around the corner.

  He rolled out and sighted the green line of his POF just behind the guy’s left ear. He took a breath, let half of it out, and tightened his finger on the trigger. Suddenly he stopped. What if it is not Abu Salah? What if it’s just some homeless bum settling in for the night?

  Santos studied the figure through his riflescope. He had never actually laid eyes on Abu Salah. But this guy seemed to match the description he had of him, scruffy beard and all. Still, something was off. It looked like the guy was wearing western-style clothes, something Abu Salah was not known to do.

  He continued observing the man through the scope. The guy was definitely in the right place at the right time. Still. . .

  The woman noticed movement near the side of the garage. She strained her eyes but could not make out what it was. She had a good vantage point—she was concealed in the brush about twenty meters across the road from the corner of the garage—but it was dark. She wished she had thought to bring binoculars.

  She saw the figure stop and look around. It was definitely a person, maybe Kashmiri. But why would Kashmiri be outside of the house at this hour? Doing a reconnaissance? She wondered if the figure was just Kashmiri checking out the area before getting into his car. Perhaps he suspected that someone was coming to get him.

  The woman waited and watched. She was on her belly with the long, suppressed Glock held out in front of her. As dark as it was, this would still be an easy shot.

  Then the person sat down and leaned back against the garage wall.

  Odd . . .

  CHAPTER 70

  Santos rolled back around the corner of the house and whispered into his lapel mic, “I don’t know whether it’s him or not.”

  MacMurphy replied, “It’s probably him.”

  “But what if it’s not?”

  “Throw something out there and see what he does. If you see a gun, shoot the sonofabitch.”

  “Okay.”

  Santos found a pebble and threw it about ten feet in front of the guy. It landed silently on a grassy area and the guy did not move. He found a larger stone and tried again, aiming higher into the foliage. The guy jumped up and looked in the direction of the noise. A .38 caliber revolver was in his outstretched hand.

  Santos rolled out on one knee, placed the green line on center mass and squeezed the trigger. A silent burst of four 5.56mm rounds ripped Abu Salah’s side from shoulder to waist, and he went down in a heap with a yelp.

  Santos waited for a moment and checked for movement. W
hen there was none, he stood up and approached the body, keeping the green line poised on its still form. As he looked down at the lifeless body with his POF held loosely at his side, he felt two solid punches hitting his chest. The force of the blows cracked something and knocked him down hard on his back. He rolled painfully and came up with the POF aimed in the direction of what he immediately recognized as a silenced double-tap. The green line danced across the bushes on the other side of the road, but he saw nothing.

  “Someone’s out there, MacMurphy. Just caught two in the chest. Think a rib or two is cracked. Whoever it is can really shoot.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just hurts like hell.”

  “I’ll circle around. Stay down.”

  MacMurphy slid out from under the bush and took off in a low crouch toward the shooter’s position. He knew instinctively where an assassin would set up an attack—in the brush directly across the road from the driveway. This coincided with the direction of the fire that hit Santos.

  He planned to circle behind the shooter and take him out from behind. He moved through the underbrush as swiftly and quietly as possible. The terrain in front of him was illuminated in a soft green glow. He thanked God for the night-vision technology and hoped his adversary did not have it.

  It was hot and humid. Sweat ran into his eyes and soaked his shirt. He continued moving carefully through the heavy brush. He winced each time a twig snapped or a branch rubbed across his chest. MacMurphy stopped for a moment and whispered into his lapel mic, “See anything?”

  “Nothing. I’m set up behind the body by the garage. Good cover. Where are you?”

  “Circling around from behind. Don’t shoot me.”

  “I’ll try not to . . .”

  “Thanks . . .”

  MacMurphy reached the sandy streambed and turned north. As weak as it was, the stream still cleared foliage as it cut through the brush, which made MacMurphy’s movement easier. He quickened his pace. After about one hundred meters, he stopped and focused on the slope leading up to the road. No movement. He proceeded up the slope and through the heavy underbrush toward where he thought the shooter was hiding.

  He slowed to quiet his movements and darted his eyes into the thickest bunches of foliage, looking for any sudden shaking or rustling. Seeing nothing, he lunged forward onto a rock that trembled and slipped down the slope. His stomach lurched as the ground suddenly disappeared. He fell hard and stifled a yell as the jagged edge of a rock cut through his robe and carved through his shin. Clenching his fist against the pain, he looked down and saw the sharp, flat rock his foothold had been stacked on top of.

  He tensed and listened hard to determine if his fall had alerted the shooter. The night was quiet except for a symphony of croaking frogs and a gentle breeze rustling through the trees. Determined not to be caught compromised, he worked quickly to dress the wound with strips of fabric he tore from the bottom of his robe. Pain and adrenaline made his leg shake, but he gritted his teeth and continued working. As he tied the last strip into place, he briefly considered emailing the robe’s manufacturer to laud the nondescript man-dress for its ever-surprising versatility.

  Suddenly he heard a thrashing in the underbrush about twenty meters to his right. He steadied his leg, quietly raised himself onto the opposite knee, and sighted his scope on the source of the sound.

  Maybe it’s an animal, he thought.

  Sounds are magnified in the woods, especially when all of a hunter’s senses are focused on his prey. His earpiece sounded. “Someone’s out there, Mac. I just hit him. He went down. I’m crossing the road.”

  “Don’t expose yourself. The shooter is right between us. Wait! I hear something . . .”

  The woman felt a sharp blow hit her left bicep. The impact spun her around and knocked her to the ground. She cursed silently and winced from the pain. She lay there in the brush, breathing heavily. Her left arm throbbed and hung uselessly at her side.

  Who is this person?

  She had hit him square in the chest. Twice. She knew she had not missed.

  Shit! He’s wearing a vest. He must be. It’s not Kashmiri. He must have hired security. Damn.

  She could barely move the fingers on her left hand. She examined her injured arm. It throbbed but, surprisingly, there was not a lot of blood. She used a handkerchief to tie a tourniquet around the wound and then sat there in the bushes, thinking.

  There may be more than one of them. And if they are wearing vests, they may also have night-vision gear. They must be professionals. Damn!

  She whispered into her lapel mic, “I’m hit. He has security here. Need help.”

  The Iranian was parked several blocks north in a residential area. “I’m on my way. I will approach on your side of the road with the passenger door open. Be ready to jump in.”

  She began crawling slowly toward the road.

  Santos had his rifle braced across the lifeless body of Abu Salah. The green line of death stretched out from the muzzle of the POF and into the brush on the other side of the road.

  Whoever he shot had gone down. He could see no movement. He waited a few more moments and then decided to take a closer look. He crawled along the grass to the side of the road, stopping every few feet to steel himself against the pain in his chest and to scan the area through his riflescope. Still nothing.

  He saw the lights of a car approaching from the north. Its headlights illuminated the road and cast a bright glare into Santos’s night-vision goggles. Santos rolled closer to a bush along the property line to avoid being seen. He bit his lip as his chest hit the ground and shut his eyes tightly until the car passed him.

  Santos contemplated crossing the road but decided he was better off where he was. Whoever was over there was an excellent shot and the road offered no cover whatsoever. Better to wait and let MacMurphy come up behind the shooter. His earphone sputtered. “What was that?”

  “Nothing. Passing car. I’m near the end of the driveway. Decent cover. I’ll stay here. Where are you?”

  “Coming up. Slow going. But something is moving up there. Keep alert.”

  “Will do.”

  Moments later Santos noticed movement in the bushes on the other side of the road. Lying painfully in the prone position, he presented a very small target and had a good view of the brush line bordering the streambed. “Something’s moving,” he whispered into his mic.

  Senses heightened with adrenaline, he moved his scope back and forth along the brush line, the green line seeking out a target. He focused on a spot between two bushes where he thought he saw movement. One of the bushes moved and he let out a breath and tightened his grip on the trigger.

  Suddenly he heard the roar of an engine approaching rapidly from the south. He glanced down the road to his right and saw a car approaching fast with its lights out. His pulse quickened and he turned his rifle toward the approaching car, ready to shoot.

  The headlights came on in a blast of light that blinded him through his night-vision goggles. He ripped them off and squeezed his eyes shut. When he looked up through squinted eyes, his vision was clouded with bright dancing stars. But he could still make out the outline of a car screeching to a halt directly in front of him. He could barely see the figure on the other side of the car darting out of the brush and running toward the open passenger door.

  Santos heard the rapid poof, poof, poof of suppressed fire from the other side of the road and bullets pelting into the car. The car started to take off. Pushing through the searing pain, Santos shoved his rifle to his shoulder and fired off a long burst into the door on the driver’s side.

  Bullets from both sides of the road struck the car in a cacophony of breaking glass and popping metal. The car slowed almost to a stop and then rolled until it came to rest in the grass.

  CHAPTER 71

  Santos and MacMurphy rushed up on either side of the car, rifles at the ready. They peered at each other over the roof of the dark green Ford Focus. “I recogniz
e this car,” said MacMurphy. “It passed by earlier. Twice. Must have been the one that dropped off the shooter.”

  “I’ll bet it was in better shape then. Sure is a mess right now,” said Santos.

  Both front doors were pockmarked with bullet holes and the windows were completely shot out. Glass covered the inside of the car and gathered in menacing piles around its exterior. The engine had stalled out but the lights were still on. Santos reached in, shoved the dead driver aside, and switched them off.

  The driver was slumped over the wheel. His brown suit was matted with blood and riddled with body shots. One round had entered behind his left ear and blown a chunk out of his forehead. Blood and brains spattered the windshield.

  The passenger hung out of the passenger door, face down in the grass. MacMurphy grimaced as he bent down and pulled off the ski mask. The woman’s long, dark hair spilled out. “Guess what?” said MacMurphy. He did not wait for a response. “Our shooter was a woman.”

  “No shit? We just killed a woman? She was one hell of a shooter . . .” His hand gingerly covered the two bullet holes in his Kevlar vest. He noticed the torn hem of MacMurphy’s robe and saw blood trickling down his trembling ankle. “Fuck, what the hell happened?”

  MacMurphy followed Santos’s stare and shrugged. “Occupational hazard. I tripped while chasing the shooter. It looks worse than it is. Still, I might’ve hit the driver on my first round if my leg hadn’t been shaking.”

  Santos said, “You still landed the hit. And it could’ve cost more than a shaking leg.”

  MacMurphy shook his head and said, “You’re right. They were both good.” He looked up and down the street. “Let’s clean up this mess before another car passes.” It was quiet except for the croaking frogs along the streambed.

  “Right,” said Santos. “Let’s push this thing over there and out of the way so it will look like it’s parked alongside the road.”

  MacMurphy winced as he leaned down to lift the woman into the car and close the door behind her. She was riddled with 5.56 caliber rifle bullets, but her face was untouched. Eyes wide open. Surprised. He noticed how attractive she was even in death. The long Glock was still clutched in her hand.