Time to Kill: A Sniper Novel kss-6

by Jack Coughlin

  The cell phone vibrated silently in his pocket, and Omar spoke quietly. “I just saw them pull in downstairs. One officer, plus two bodyguards with AKs. Tianha is in front. On the way up.” Kyle snapped down the lid and put it back in his pocket, then let his body settle into the alert mode with every sense tingling. He rested his left hand on the doorknob and watched the hallway through the fish-eye peephole.

  There was no warning bell on the elevator, but Swanson heard movement at the far end of the hall, and a woman’s voice echoing in the stillness. “This way. It’s that door right down there at the end.” Tianha was announcing obvious directions to make useless noise that served as a warning. Her comment was followed by the heavy fall of boots in the hallway. Swanson sucked in his breath and exhaled slowly.

  One bodyguard led the way, and the major steered Tianha by the elbow to keep her in front of him. The second guard brought up the rear. They stopped at the entry to the safe house, and the guards took positions a few feet away from the door, one on each side, flat against the wall, and brought up their AK-47s.

  Swanson gently opened his own door a half inch and saw that they were about fifteen feet away, with all of their attention on the safe house entrance.

  Shakuri pushed Tianha forward. If any bullets came out of the apartment, she would be the first to be hit. “Call him,” the major ordered in a whisper, pulling his own pistol and standing out of sight to the side.

  She knocked. “Kyle? It’s me, Tianha. Let me in.”

  There was a pause and a shuffle of feet behind the door, as if someone were looking cautiously through the spy hole. Then there was a rattle of a chain as if the door were being unlocked. The two guards stepped back into the hallway, rifles pointed at the door, and Shakuri held Tianha tightly as a shield.

  Kyle Swanson had silently opened his own door and was already in the hall behind them. His pistol was extended, a part of him, and he went for the soldier on his right with the first shot, which sounded like a cannon in the tight quarters. Swanson felt the kick of the recoil and saw the bullet strike the man just behind the ear. Kyle was already turning to the next target. The pistol crossed over the major and Tianha and steadied on the second guard, whose head also exploded before he could turn around. Bright red blood and pink and gray brain matter showered the walls, and Kyle moved in hard and fast.

  In three steps, he was at top speed and hurtled into the major, whose face was covered in gore and who still did not realize what was happening. Swanson hit with a body tackle that slammed the Iranian officer against the wall as the door opened and Omar reached out and snatched Tianha inside to safety. Kyle pistol-whipped the officer, back and forth across the face, three times, letting the front sight gouge and tear at the flesh, then banged down hard on the skull with the butt of his gun and knocked Shakuri cold. Two kill shots and a takedown in less than ten seconds. His marksmanship and mixed martial arts coaches would have been proud.

  He shoved the weapon into his belt and helped Omar drag the three bodies inside and dump them in the living room. They had no time to wipe down the walls and mop the hall, but at least the corpses were out of sight.

  Tianha emerged from the bathroom with a stack of wet and dry towels and gave Shakuri a quick cleanup, pouring water into his face. “Wake up,” she said. “You’re going on a trip.” The major was hoisted into a chair and cuffed with plastic strips, then gagged with duct tape. His eyes blinked madly when he started understanding what had happened, and he stared at the slim man standing before him with arms crossed. It had to be the American.

  “So you are the famous Major Mansoor Shakuri, and I hear you have been looking for me,” Swanson said. “Too bad you found me.”

  Kyle seized the man’s right hand and with a hard pull and a sharp twist broke the little finger. Shakuri jerked away in pain and tried to kick out, but Swanson just slapped him. “That was for ordering the assassination of an American citizen on American soil — an accountant who had done no one any harm, but was a threat to your efforts in Egypt.”

  Shakuri shook his head in denial, only to get slapped again with an open-hand strike that made him see stars. The bleeding on his face had resumed, and Tianha stepped in to towel him clean again.

  “We’ve got to go,” she said.

  “Almost there,” said Kyle. He took the left hand, stared into the major’s terrified eyes, and broke the pinkie finger on that one, too, watching as Shakuri recoiled with the new slash of pain. “And that is for sending a team out to kidnap Lady Patricia Cornwell in London.” He gave Shakuri the look of a wolf checking out a rabbit. “This next one is going to hurt,” he said and tore away the duct tape gag. “I want to hear you scream on this one.”

  “But…” the major sputtered, as Kyle flipped the pistol around, and the excuse turned into earsplitting screams when Swanson hammered Shakuri in the stomach, breaking a couple of ribs, then once more in the balls, and threw a final punch that broke two upper front teeth. The screams came with every breath for a few seconds, then lapsed into moans of despair and pain.

  “Pat’s my mother, you asshole,” Swanson snarled.

  Omar put a hand gently on Kyle’s shoulder and was surprised to discover that Swanson’s muscles were not even tense. “That’s enough of the torture. Save something for the intelligence types.”

  Kyle stepped back. “That wasn’t torture, Omar. It was just plain old ass-kicking payback. I’m done with this piece of shit.”

  27

  “Let’s do it quickly,” Omar said, his voice flat and under control. “This safe house is burned. Even with the bodies out of sight, the blood trail out there will be a big flashing sign when someone comes looking for them.” There was no time to waste with scrub brushes and buckets of water to wipe up the blood, the goo of brain matter, and the white bits of bone that stuck to the walls and spread on the floor.

  Tianha had watched in shock as Kyle had attacked the major, for it had been so quick and continual, one violent act after another. “You must have steel bands around your heart,” she said when it was over.

  Kyle dropped the used magazine out of his pistol and slid home a new one, then lifted his backpack, which was already on the kitchen table. The anger that he had displayed only a few minutes earlier had evaporated like a blowing fog as he adjusted to the developing situation, preparing for whatever came next. He did not answer her observations. “I’m ready. Let’s move out.”

  Omar hauled the major to his feet, and Tianha slid a pillowcase over the prisoner’s head for a hood. The thin cotton immediately soaked up the ribbons of blood from the facial wounds, and Shakuri groaned against the stabbing pain of the broken ribs and fingers. He was wobbling on his feet when he heard the American hiss, close to his ear, “You call out for help, I’ll rip your throat open. Now move.” Kyle did not have a knife in his hand, but the major did not know that.

  Tianha opened the door, and the four of them went into the hallway and down the emergency stairwell, with Omar and Swanson dragging the reeling major between them. Within ten minutes, they were in the garage, and the moaning Major Mansoor Shakuri had been bundled into the windowless cabin of a scarred van.

  “Come with us,” Tianha said to Kyle, looking him in the face and noticing the exhausted eyes and the cheeks sunken from weariness. “We rendezvous with a Saudi Air Force helicopter about twenty miles to the north and will be across the border in no time. Then we fly this package straight back to London. Let’s go.”

  Kyle reached into the bag and found the computer flash drive that had been given to him. No bigger than a domino, it was packed with vital inside information about the government of Egypt, the armed forces, and the Muslim Brotherhood. He pressed it into her hand. “Here’s the digitized material the Egyptians gave us during our meeting. It never made it out of the country, but our bosses can still use it.”

  “You’re not coming, are you?” She dropped the flash drive into her pocket. “MI6 has set up the extraction with the Saudis, our agents will be
aboard, and we have a quiet place waiting in the desert where the major will be interrogated. Everything will be safe. We can clear out of this place, Kyle. Our job is done.”

  “Can’t do it,” Swanson replied. It was a Marine thing: first in, last out. “I still have some unfinished business here.” He did not consider telling her about the earlier disaster with the American special ops chopper. Keep things upbeat. “You and Omar go ahead. You have an intelligence coup with these documents and your own personal observations, plus my debrief with Omar this morning, and a prisoner who has been getting headlines as the man in charge of the Iranian operation. If that major isn’t your so-called Pharaoh, then he knows who is, and he knows a hell of a lot of other things. You did a good job when crunch time came, Bialy, and organized a great snatch-and-grab operation. Now finish it off. Get to your bird and extract your high-value target out of here.”

  “What about you? How are you going to operate with no safe house and no backup?”

  “I have it somewhere,” he said, reaching out to shake Omar’s hand. “Good luck to both of you. Go.”

  “Stay safe, Kyle,” said Omar. “I’ll buy you a beer in London.”

  “Right.” He tossed his bag into the 4Runner and waited until the van pulled away. Then he drove out into the veil of bright sunshine.

  * * *

  Swanson had to admit that he was bone tired, edgy, and agitated. He was squeezing the steering wheel in a death grip. He had been carrying on this singular one-man crusade from the moment the first Iranian troops had set foot on the beach in front of the Blue Neptune two days earlier, never knowing from one moment to the next where it was all leading. He had caused the Tehran military machine to stumble, but the stress and nonstop action were wearing him down. He fumbled around in the seabag as he drove and found a packet of Dexedrine “go pills,” then chewed two of the amphetamines for a temporary, emergency chemical lift. He could sleep when he was dead and resting in the Boatman’s skiff. Until then, he had work to do, and a Marine gunnery sergeant was not in the business of cutting anyone slack, least of all himself. He had been trained to go beyond the limits of endurance, to take it to the absolute max.

  He threaded the 4Runner through the heart of the city, then turned out into the smaller, flanking neighborhoods. The usually colorful Sharm el-Sheikh was without any joy this morning, and the few people on the traffic-starved streets were scurrying from one place to another. Many shops were closed, and the central market was almost empty instead of being jammed with customers. At the big park where the executions had taken place, the bodies had been removed, but a pair of Iranian armored personnel carriers were parked back-to-back with their ramps down and guns manned. Maybe they were showing the locals who still held the big stick, despite the crippling attacks of the previous night. Stinking smoke still rode on the breeze. Along Hotel Row, the big buildings seemed like derelicts waiting for someone to give them a dollar, although the construction crews were still at work. A few foreign tourists milled about, looking lost and worried.

  He drove back into the coastal business park where the Gold Sun Water Equipment marina was located, parked beside a shed about fifty yards away from the shop, on the opposite side of the road, and shut down the engine. He slid down in the seat, tucking his pistol beneath his thigh. Just like downtown, the boatyards were yawningly vacant except for a few vehicles. No police cars nor any men in uniform were around. Abdel El-Din was outside, nailing a sheet of plywood over the window that Kyle had broken last night, and the rap-rap of his hammer sounded like little pistol shots. At least the kid wasn’t under arrest, which indicated that he had successfully run his scam with the local cops, who apparently had a lot more to worry about this morning than a dive shop burglary. Their city was falling into an abyss, and their chief was under arrest by the soldiers.

  Kyle eyeballed each door and window in the yard. The sun, almost directly overhead, applied a flare of golden light on the whitewashed buildings. A motorboat chugged down the waterway, but no one stirred at the businesses. Doors were locked, all lights were out, and signs announced that the places were closed. Swanson eased from his SUV and quietly worked his way around the sheds, avoiding the gravel road and exposed spaces. At the water’s edge, the hodgepodge of stacked canoes, paddleboats, jet skis, and other apparatus provided ready-made concealment. After scaling a small wire fence, Kyle ducked through the big door that opened into the Gold Sun Water Equipment pier. He crouched behind an overturned boat just as the hammering out front stopped.

  Abdel El-Din came inside, sweating and wiping his head with a cloth, and gave a loud sigh as he sat down at his desk with a bottle of water. A voice behind him said, “Hello, Abdel,” making the young Egyptian jump in surprise, his eyes darting around. “Swanson! How did you get in? I was working right by the door.”

  Kyle smiled and took a seat. “Never mind that. How are you?”

  El-Din shook his head. “Things are bad. I reported to the police, like you said, and they were uninterested. I am OK, but everything is falling apart. Some kids have spray-painted the word DEATH on buildings across the city.”

  Kyle paused to let the Egyptian collect his thoughts, and then he said, “I’ve been through the streets today, too, and the few people that I saw look afraid. I understand that up to a point because of the attacks yesterday, but there’s more to it, isn’t there? What’s happened?”

  El-Din scratched at the sweat on his chin. “More people have been culled out for another firing squad. Twenty of our leading citizens have been arrested and beaten in the streets and thrown in prison. No one is allowed to see them. The whole city is in shock. We don’t know what to do, other than hide.”

  “You know what to do, Abdel. You didn’t hide last night, you fought back.”

  “Which means that I am responsible for these new executions.” Tears welled in his brown eyes, and he turned away so another man would not see him cry. “I haven’t told anybody about what we did, but my heart burns with shame and guilt.”

  Kyle shook his head. “That’s just normal after-action shock, and you’re feeling sorry for yourself. You went out there with me to avenge your brother, who was murdered by those same people … before you took action. You had done nothing to cause his death, and you are not the reason for this new round of executions.”

  “Why are they doing this? I thought they were supposed to be our friends.”

  “The Iranians must stamp out any challenge to their authority in this city in order to turn it into a permanent military base, and they will get meaner as time goes on. Take my word, kid, Sharm will soon become a militarized city, all of the businesses will die, and the worst elements of Sharia law will be ruthlessly imposed so they can create a big naval base that controls the Suez Canal and the oil shipping routes.”

  “Sharia law? Why bring that up? Are you just another American who hates all Muslims?” Abdel El-Din shouted the accusation. “You don’t know anything about our culture.”

  “Bullshit, Abdel. I’ve worked alongside Muslims in the Middle East and Africa for almost as many years as you have been on this earth. This is not a religious thing but a cold political move by Tehran and the extremist elements of the Muslim Brotherhood in Cairo. Those soldiers out there who are running around shooting your friends and relatives are your fellow Muslims, not American or British troops.”

  El-Din was on his feet. “They came as peacekeepers to protect us during the uprisings that are sweeping the country. Look at how they put down the attacks by those fanatics on Hotel Row!”

  “The Iranians came as part of a conquering army, Abdel, and I think that assault on the hotels was just another part of their plan to establish themselves. Are they acting like friends, or are they your new masters?”

  “They will go back home when things settle down,” El-Din said, not believing his own words.

  “This won’t stop with Sharm. They will expand across to Hurghada and capture that big air base because it is better suited to handle t
heir fighters and bombers. Once they have supporting air power, they will have control of all of southern Egypt, and then they will never leave. But the rest of the world is not going to sit by idly and let Iran control most of the oil traffic. There will be a big invasion and all of Sharm will be crushed like a bug.”

  The Egyptian had his hands on his hips and sucked in deep and nervous breaths, trying to put his thoughts in order.

  Kyle continued. “Look, Abdel, I really did get caught up in this mess by accident. Eventually I will be able to leave. Sooner or later, this is going to be your fight, not mine, although I am willing to help.” Kyle stared hard at El-Din. “The only question you have to answer is whether you want to live the rest of your life beneath Iranian boots. Do you? If so, I will leave right now and you will never see me again.”

  Abdel rose and wiped away the tears, which had mingled with the sweat. His eyes grew hard. “No. I do not, but I am only one man.”

  “You told me last night that other people were as outraged as you by that first round of executions, so I don’t think that you are really alone. Egyptians have not survived so many centuries by acting like a bunch of frightened rabbits.”

  El-Din regarded the slight American; no doubt this was a dangerous man. “So do you have another idea, like the one we did last night?”

  “Yes. With a little help from your friends, I believe we can stop tonight’s executions.”

  “Really?”

  “Why not?” Kyle sketched out the possibilities, like a salesman pumping an inevitably positive response into a client. The clock read just after noon, which gave them nine hours to pull something together.

  * * *

  The muted purr of the twin-prop Cessna 421 was almost hypnotic to the pilot as he skimmed the private plane along the eastern bank of the Suez Canal. Not a ship was moving down there. Colonel Yahya Ali Naqdi had held his private license for many years, was rated for multiengine aircraft, and had, in a rare moment of weakness, managed to purchase the Cessna for his own use three years ago with money laundered through the Palm Group cover company. He had sold his masters back in Tehran with the idea of using it for covert reconnaissance, when in reality he just loved flying and treasured the feeling of freedom that being in the air gave to him. On his own plane, he was master of his own fate.