by Mark Greaney
“Pretty soon, bro, you’ll be back workin’ with us. Of course you’ll still be the outsider, but I promise I’ll let you join us for a cup of joe from time to time.”
Gentry nodded. It would be good to be part of a team again, even if there were a few caveats to the relationship.
“First things first, though. Let’s get through this morning. One out.”
“Roger that,” whispered Court to himself; he did not transmit to Hightower. He rose slowly, avoided the shelf above, and crossed the tiny alleyway towards the side entrance to the bank. He picked the lock in under thirty seconds; it was a simple tumbler job that needed just two narrow tools and a few jiggles of the torque wrench to defeat.
Inside it was pitch-black; stale dust wafted in the moonlight shining through circular and arched windows. Court pulled his penlight from his pocket and turned it on, put it in his mouth, and crossed down a small colonnade that ran along the eastern side of the large, open building. This place had been around for hundreds of years, Gentry could tell, but apparently banking was no longer such a big deal in Suakin. Most of the space was open and empty, with a few desks and telephones, wooden filing cabinets, and steps that went down to a basement. Court continued on to the main entrance and found it exactly as drawn up in the diagrams Zack had provided him. There were stairs to the left and the right of the front double doors. The steps went up to a narrow atrium over the doors, where large windows looked out over the square. Gentry took a few minutes to stage his gear, hustling a half dozen times up and down the spiral stone staircases to position equipment where he would need it when Oryx and his security detail came storming through the door, thinking they were saving themselves from an attack in the square.
Court looked out the open windows of the atrium, getting a good look at the square for the first time. It did not look like a square, in the sense that Court knew the word from his travels in Europe, Asia, and Latin America. It was the size of two football fields, completely unpaved, not a blade of grass, just a big, flat expanse of hard earth. On the opposite side of the bank were some rickety looking two-story buildings, whitewashed colonial-style architecture but dingy, their filth obvious even in the moonlight shine. To the northeast, the right side of the square, it was nothing but shacks—handmade driftwood, plywood, tin, and junk hammered together or tied together or, Court imagined with slight exaggeration, simply leaned together with a prayer to Allah and a hope for the best. The shacks stretched down a hill several blocks to the water’s edge and the causeway to the island of Old Suakin.
To the left of Court’s vantage point, the western side of the square, he saw the finest buildings Suakin had to offer. The hotel was there, the Suakin Palace. Court looked at the third floor and wondered if Sierra Five was watching. Gentry stood in pitch-blackness inside the bank, but he figured Spencer would have night vision gear of some sort. He raised his hand tentatively.
“Sierra Five to Sierra One,” the transmission came over the net a second later.
“Go for One,” Zack’s tinny voice responded.
“Sierra Six is in position.”
“Never a doubt in my mind,” said Hightower. Court lowered his hand. It felt odd to be watched, especially at a time like this. He continued scanning the rest of the buildings of the square. They were whitewashed limestone and coral, looking as old as Methuselah, Gentry thought, then he wondered if Methuselah was from around here.
He eyed the street from where the SLA trucks should come, assuming they’d come at all. If they did not, then Court assumed he’d leave all his gear here and just scoot on out the side door of the bank. The Sudanese would find a curious array of gadgets lying around the building where their president was set to come if there was a ruckus, but the CIA would not be positively implicated in any sort of attack or potential ambush. All of this gear was available outside of the USA, and all of this gear had been procured outside of the USA.
But the CIA local field office, Sudan Station, had assured everyone involved, in no uncertain terms, that their rebels would come through. Everyone involved had believed them, to the extent that Court’s source was discounted as unreliable for providing intel that said otherwise.
Fuck, thought Court. This is not how he operated his solo hits. Everything was so much simpler as a private contract killer.
THIRTY-THREE
The Gray Man had finished his work inside the bank by ten after six. He’d just returned to his perch on the second floor when a transmission from Zack came though. “Whiskey Sierra in position. Three is on a rooftop on the northwest corner of the square; Five is in the third-floor window of the Suakin Palace on the southwest corner. The remainder of us are together and mobile, three blocks northeast of the square. We are in a beige . . . break. . . . What the hell is this piece of shit? A beige Ford Econoline van. The SLA will hit from the west. They should be getting into position right about now. First one that sees or hears any sign of them, call it in.” A staccato pair of “Roger thats” from his men at the square followed the transmission.
Dawn began in the east ten minutes later. The town sloped from the square down to the water, so from his second-floor vantage point Court could see the distant sea glowing with morning light where it met the sky. Oryx would appear on the other side of the square in minutes, yet still no one had seen any sign of the SLA. They should at least have been somewhere staging to move, and the two Whiskey Sierra operators west of the square should have either heard or seen them by now.
But there was nothing.
Gentry saw what Zack meant when he said the town had an Old West feel. Looking out of the window at the dirt, the simple buildings, the hitching posts and water troughs, the donkey carts and wooden awnings, guns at the ready for a shoot-out, Court realized he could be in another world and another time.
Gentry sipped water in his high perch. He checked the layout of items in the pack on his back for the fourth time.
Tension built quickly in his stomach.
“One for Five,” Zack said in his mike.
“Go for Five, One,” replied Spencer, the muscular black team member who had been an Army Special Forces sergeant before moving into CIA black ops.
“Still nothing in your sector?”
“Don’t see anything over here by the hotel.”
“Three?”
“Not a peep to the northwest, boss.”
Hesitation from Hightower. Court wondered if he was about to abort the mission. “All right. Looks like we’re gonna have to go ahead with Bravo.”
In the dark atrium of the bank, Court Gentry’s eyebrows furrowed almost to the point of touching. What the hell was “Bravo”? If there was a plan B, then Court sure as shit hadn’t been read in on it.
“Roger that, boss,” said Three. “I’ve got the RPG ready.”
The RPG? Cold sweat formed on the Gray Man’s temples.
Court began to reach down to push a button on his sat phone to call Zack to find out what the hell was going on.
But he didn’t have to.
“Okay, Six. Let me fill you in before you blow a blood vessel.” Zack’s disembodied voice sounded somewhat contrite. “Denny and I were worried that the SLA might not be able to come through for us. Sudan Station kept promising . . . but you saw how their numbers were diminishing before our eyes. Your source, the cop, and his intel that the SLA had been compromised, pretty much sealed the deal.
“Brother, even without the SLA, we are still going to go ahead. You don’t need a battle, you just need a diversion, a little attack to get Oryx moving to his security team’s rally point. Well, Six, we’re gonna give you that little attack, aren’t we, Three?”
“Roger that, One.”
“Three and Five are going to lay down some direct fire, just enough to get Oryx and his close-in bodyguards through the door of the bank. Then we’re going to hit the remainder of the guys in the square from the northeast, just to keep their heads down for a minute or two. After that you’ll be clear, break.” The
re was a long pause. “This is Denny’s plan, by the way. I didn’t want to tell you before now because . . . well, shit, I hoped the SLA would show. Hope you’re not too pissed.”
Court wasn’t pissed; he was white-hot fucking livid. One hundred rebels had turned to zero, and Zack had neglected to mention the company of infantry that was supposed to be in the area. Court had thought that he would have plenty of time to get Oryx to the car and out of town while the bodyguards were fighting it out with rebels. But now he only had the support of five men in the square, and they would break contact almost immediately, giving Court virtually no time to get Oryx out of the bank, move him ten blocks to the car, and then get him on the road and out of town.
Court had been ordered not to transmit on the C4OPS radio, but he did not care. He pressed the talk button on his belt. “You son of a bitch! I can’t get him out in time—”
“Off the net, Six!” Zack ordered. As team leader, his radio had been set to override the transmissions of all others. “Oryx and his detail are in sight. They are entering the square, northeast corner. Get ready to hit the rear of the party, Three.”
“Three has targets in sight,” said Dan, his voice low.
Court looked out the window at the dawn. He could just make out movement, the mass of dark-suited men in the distance, appearing in the square. He looked down at the staircase, thought about running, although he didn’t really know where he would go. It was too late to continue on with Sid’s operation now; there was no way he could get back to the Blaser rifle and shoot Abboud, and if he did not complete that objective, then Sidorenko would not help him get out of the country.
Conversely, if he did not go through with Nocturne Sapphire, Zack and the CIA would not help him get out of the country, either.
He was stuck, past the point of no return, and this was the reason Hightower hadn’t told him of the change in the mission to direct action.
He’d have to continue on with Nocturne Sapphire now.
“Two hundred yards to the bank,” said Five. “I’ll hit them when they are passing by the door.”
“Roger that.”
Gentry took one last look at his gear around him on the atrium; it was all in place. He calmed himself. This was different from most of his other operations, but they’d snagged some terrorists back in the Goon Squad days, so Court was no stranger to this sort of action. Still, this was big. This was the biggest, most complicated, most time-sensitive mission he’d ever been on. It was a mission that stank of desperation on the part of the CIA.
Court’s mentor, Maurice, had always told him, “Any mission you can’t afford to walk away from is a mission you should run away from.”
“One hundred fifty yards,” came the call from Sierra Five.
Maurice had another saying that popped into Court’s mind right then. “A plan is just a big list of shit that’s not going to happen.” Court had found this to be the one constant in his missions, in his life. Plans were good. Plans were necessary, but ultimately, most plans were bullshit.
“Sierra Three to One.”
“Go for One.”
“Boss, I got a truck passing below my position.”
“SLA?” Court could hear the hopefulness in Hightower’s voice.
“Wait one, break.” A short pause. Then, “Negative. It’s GOS troops.”
“Five for One . . . I got troops over here, too. Two blocks west of me heading towards the square.”
“Goddammit,” said Zack as way of reply.
Shit, thought Court. The GOS was nearby, but the SLA was not. Who were the GOS looking for?
Court squinted across the square. To his right the sun began to rise over the water like a fresh red blister. Dawn’s light gave an eerie glow to the whitewashed buildings to his left. Abboud’s entourage, some twenty or more men, closed on his position.
“One, this is Three. What we doin’, boss?” Court’s earpiece was alive with Whiskey Sierra’s traffic, though he was under orders to not transmit himself.
Court whispered to himself in the cool, dark atrium, willing with every ounce of imagined magic projection he could muster. “Abort. Abort.” He stayed at the window, but he was ready to run down the stairs and out the back door of the building. He could get away, not to the car left for him, but to the water. There were little boats tied up all around the harbor; he could grab one and go.
Hightower’s voice came over the net. Court knew each inflection of the man, to where he could hear the stress concealed between the words. “Say number of tangos, over.”
“One, Three. Could be about thirty. Three-oh, break. One long flatbed. Small arms and RPGs sighted, break. Might be some PKMs in there too, boss, over.” PKMs were big Russian belt-fed machine guns.
“Roger that,” said Zack flatly.
“Five to One. I’ve got about the same number over here. They are patrolling in columns, doesn’t look like they’re too jacked up for trouble.”
When Zack said nothing else for a few seconds, the net crackled to life again. “One, this is Three. I can engage right now. Once they disperse it’s going to be hard—”
“Understood, Three. Wait one,” said Zack.
“Abort,” whispered Gentry again. And then, again under his breath, he said over and over and over a line that he’d used many times in the past when life and death was all up to Sierra One, and Court was on the tip of the spear awaiting the decision. “Be cool, Zack. Be cool, Zack. Be cool, Zack.”
Court knew everything, literally his very life, likely depended on Sierra One’s next transmission; a safe, quiet exfiltration, and then an investigation into how Nocturne Sapphire fell apart so completely.
Or the alternative.
World War fucking Three.
“Be cool, Zack.”
Then it came. “Sierra One to all elements.”
Be cool Zack.
A long hesitation. “Let’s knock it off. Everybody stand down. Hold positions until Oryx’s entourage gets in the mosque; then I want a quiet egress back out of the area—”
Court let out one of the longest sighs of relief of his life.
Each member of Whiskey Sierra came on the net, in turn, and confirmed that they understood the order to stand down. These men were consummate professionals; they betrayed no emotion, neither relief nor disappointment, that the mission had been scrubbed at the very last second.
Gentry took one last look at President Abboud, walking briskly through the square with his entourage towards his position. Disappointing to be so close and yet so far, but Gentry was a pro as well. He’d been here before, a second or two before the point of no return but unable or unwilling to proceed. Court wasted no time turning away from the window and moving back towards the stairs from the atrium to the front door entrance to the bank. He walked down the dark colonnaded hall. He’d almost reached the back door when his headset came alive once again with Whiskey Sierra’s radio traffic.
Zack Hightower rested his rifle between his knees and leaned his head back against the headrest of the passenger seat in frustration as Brad/Sierra Two put the dirty beige cargo van in gear. Behind them, in the very back of the van, was Milo, Sierra Four. He sat facing the closed back door of the vehicle, with a big HK21 between his legs. The shoulder-wielded machine gun carried the same powerful cartridge as many hunting and sniper rifles, but it fired them faster and from a 100-round box magazine. Milo was the designated “trunk monkey,” the man ready to shoot out the back doors to keep opposition off of their tail. He was low-profile now, with the doors closed and no targets to fire at, but if the operation had gone ahead, it was likely Sierra Four would have been the man sending the most hate downrange.
The van had been waiting in the deep shadows of an alley a few blocks from the square, far from where the government of Sudan infantry had been reported. Other than chickens and goats in the road, they’d seen no movement at all, so they pulled out of their hide and began moving south. This was in the direction of the square, so Brad made his
first turn to the left, which would take him closer to the port and allow him to avoid Abboud’s guard force.
But the alleyway turned into a dead end at a camel corral. It was a large circular structure crafted out of driftwood and scrap metal, with a few hulking animals kneeling in the dirt, and there was no way around it.
Brad began backing up the truck. Both he and Sierra One looked into their rearview mirrors.
Zack saw them first and shouted to the van and over his radio to the team.
“Troops!”
Sierra Two slammed on the brakes. Twenty meters behind them, at the mouth of the alleyway they had just entered, stood half a dozen green-clad soldiers, their Chinese-made Type 81 rifles raised in front of them and pointing at the van. One of the soldiers shouted a command.
“What do we do, boss?” asked Brad from the driver’s seat.
The delay from Zack was brief. When he spoke, he transmitted to the entire team.
“All elements. Belay my last command. We are a go for Nocturne Sapphire. I say again, execute! Light ’em up!”
In the back of the van, Milo kicked open the rear doors with his boots. They locked open wide. He lifted his machine gun and fired spurting bursts at the six soldiers at the mouth of the alleyway.
Three soldiers died where they stood. The rest dove to the ground and returned fire.
Behind Milo, Zack unbuckled himself and spun between the seats, lifting his Israeli Tavor TAR-21 assault rifle and firing over Sierra Four’s left shoulder. Brad shoved the gearshift knob forward, from reverse to drive, stomped on the gas, and the big Ford van crashed through the fencing of the corral, sending massive brown camels clambering out of the way.
The Gray Man’s shoulders dropped in resignation.
His fingertips were a foot from the latch to the back door of the bank. On the other side of the door would be a dark alleyway. Beyond that a few quiet twists and turns, and he’d be at the port, in the water of the lagoon or on a small boat. He’d be out of danger in minutes.
But Zack’s transmission and the gunfire to the north changed everything.
