The demented gambler advanced on James, his fingers curled into claws. “Kill you! K—!”
James rose from his chair and flicked his wrist, sending two ounces of gin into his attacker’s eyes. Before the man could even react to the stinging liquor, the Phoenix Force commando’s fist pistonned three times in chopping right-hand leads. The first blow snapped the man’s head back. On the second, he turned his wrist over and jammed his thumb into the notch between the maniac’s collarbones. The man had no time to gasp as his throat compressed because the third punch took him in the solar plexus.
The turbaned man made a sucking noise and went pale. James grabbed him by his shoulder and spun him, seizing him by his collar and the back of his pants. He marched the blinking and wheezing man past cringing patrons to the front of the building.
He whispered in the maniac’s ear, “Sorry about this, Rafe.”
Encizo’s eyes rolled and drool came from one corner of his bloody mouth, but his voice was very quiet and lucid amid the chaos in casino. “No problem, amigo—”
James took two lunging steps for momentum and flung Encizo through the smoked-glass double doors. People outside the casino screamed as the Cuban flew to the pavement in a cascade of glass. He rolled to a stop and lay bleeding on the sidewalk.
“Punk,” James announced as he made a show of wiping his hands.
The cocktail waitresses were still screaming and casino patrons shouted in consternation. A pair of Indian businessmen stood clapping their hands delightedly at the show.
James smiled and took a bow.
Shotguns racked behind him. He put up his hands and very slowly turned. Clayborne Forbes was pointing a stainless-steel Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver at his face. The weapon was a custom job, a product of the Smith & Wesson Performance Center. Its frame was made of titanium while the barrel and cylinder were stainless steel. James could clearly see the extra pair of holes that turned the revolver into an eight-shooter and the ugly lead cavities of the hollowpoints it had been stuffed with. For the average human, firing a Magnum with a two-inch barrel would be problematic at best.
Forbes didn’t look as though he’d have any problems.
He was even bigger in person, six-foot-four and built like an NFL tight end. His huge hand engulfed the grips of his pistol. Two more bloated, bearded bouncers flanked him, armed with enormous, 23 mm Russian KS-23, folding-stock shotguns.
“Well, goddamn.” Forbes blinked at James in surprise. Black men weren’t exactly common in Tajikistan. He lowered his revolver slightly. “You African or American?”
“African American.” James smiled. “Chicago, south-side born and raised.”
“No shit?” Forbes jerked his head toward a steel security door at the far end of the casino. “Follow me, Chicago.” He nodded at the bouncers. “Mukhtar, Askar, a round of drinks on the house and get this shit cleaned up, and find the brother’s chips.”
The two men lowered their shotguns and began shouting at the cocktail waitresses and the busboys. James followed Forbes into a standard casino security suite with banks of monitors watching the action at every table. Three security men stared up from their screens at James in open curiosity.
Forbes sighed. “Gonna have to relieve you of that piece.”
James nodded and reached under his jacket. He drew his Heckler & Koch P-9 from the concealed small-of-the-back holster he wore and handed it over. Forbes took in the big .45’s rakish lines appreciatively. “Nice.”
Forbes’s gleaming revolver rose to James’s face and the cylinder full of gaping, 125-grain hollowpoints turned as Forbes cocked back the hammer. “Now, you want to tell me what you’re doing in my crib? Or do I call in Mukhtar and Askar and have them squash it out of you?”
James leaned back slightly from the .357’s muzzle and held up his hands. “Heard a rumor a brother was getting ahead up north and came to see for myself.”
“Now that’s the kind of rumor that can get your ass killed. You—” Forbes suddenly stared at the ring on James’s finger. It was gold and carved with an eagle holding a trident and an anchor. It was the symbol of the United States Navy SEAL. Forbes’s face went flat. “If that ain’t for real, I’m going to cut it off you at the wrist.”
James grinned delightedly at a similar ring on Forbes’s gun hand. “Oh, man, you’re shitting me!”
The security men stared uncomprehendingly as the two men began a sudden, rapid exchange of Navy SEAL–speak involving teams, operations, mutually known naval officers and the halcyon days of BUDS, or basic underwater demolitions/SEAL student training.
After about five minutes of family reunion, Forbes holstered his pistol. “Well, fuck me running. Calvin James, you know I think I might even have heard of you at a SEAL meet or two.”
It was entirely possible. James and Forbes were two different generations of SEAL, but the United States Navy SEALs were a small, tightly knit community and African-Americans an even tinier minority within them. SEAL meets were get-togethers where SEALs past and present met to swap stories and gossip, engage in miniature SEAL-style Olympic events and down enormous quantities of alcohol.
“Man, they say you just up and disappeared one day, went all spooky. Got recruited by a special operations group or some other kind of top-secret black ops shit. Dropped off the Earth.”
The best lies were told by omission and cradled in truth. “That is a fact.”
Forbes handed James back his pistol. “And you came all the way here just to see my sweet ass? I mean, I know I’m pretty…” Forbes left his doubt hanging between them.
“I was retired for a while, and I really didn’t care for it. Then the Man asked if I would like to reenlist for the War on Terror. I took a year contract, the coin was decent, but I heard the private work was better. Hired on with Knight Securities to help train their newbies.”
“Heard of them,” Forbes acknowledged.
“But I got all nostalgic and shit, and decided I wanted to see some action.”
“Always a mistake.”
“Don’t I know it.” James shrugged. “So I hit the dirt in Iraq. Hadn’t been there in years. It was still 115 degrees in the shade, still infested with sand fleas and a brother still couldn’t get a piece of ass to save his life, but the car bombings, private security boys being dragged and hung from bridges and the hostage beheading? That shit was new. I didn’t dig it, so I went to Afghanistan. Lot of guys were making money in the private sector over there, double or more than what Uncle Sam was paying. Then one day in Kabul, I heard that rumor about a brother living large in Tajikistan. Sounded so crazy it had to be true.” James opened his hands, taking in the cut of Forbes’s suit and the diamonds and gold dripping from his hands. “And here you are.”
Forbes frowned. “You sayin’ you came here for a job?”
“You hiring?” James countered.
Forbes’s laughter rumbled in his chest. “Well, now, I’ll tell you. I got this town shit-scared. These Tajiks never seen a soul brother, much less soul brother SEAL. Shit, two of us? We could take this whole cracker-barrel country for every last somoni they got.
“Somoni?”
“Yeah, it’s the currency they replaced the Russian ruble with around here.” Forbes shook his head. “I wipe my ass with it.” He dug into his pocket and held up a gold money clip thick with U.S. one-hundred-dollar bills. “The good news is this gig pays in long, cool green.”
One of the security men nodded respectfully at the big man. “Mr. Forbes.”
One of the monitors showed Encizo lurching to his feet. His turban was askew and his eyes rolled dazedly.
Forbes lifted his chin. “You want me to jack him up?”
“I already did.” James flashed his smile. “And I took him for 10 K.”
Encizo staggered away into downtown Dushanbe, bleeding and mumbling.
“Well, brother, I feel the love. I surely do.” Forbes loomed forward. “But you are going to need references, and then you are going to have
to meet the Man.”
“CALVIN’S IN.” McCarter confirmed.
“Excellent.” Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman said over the satellite link. “How did the initial insertion go?”
McCarter looked across the table to where Encizo sat holding a chemical ice pack against his lumped and purpled jaw. “Smoothly.”
Kurtzman’s brow furrowed at McCarter across the Web cam. “He’s not wearing a wire, is he?”
“Calvin said to get the love he’s got to show the love, and with a SEAL running security, wearing a wire would be suicide. I agreed with him. T.J. is watching the casino and will engage in a loose tail when he emerges. Rafe and I are ready to move on word go, and Jack has a helicopter hot on the pad with a full war load at the Dushanbe airport. Any other action is Calvin’s call.”
Kurtzman scratched his beard. “You know you’ve put that man out on a limb.”
“The good news is that he has the best cover in the world, and that is his cover isn’t a cover. He is who he says he is. The head honcho over at Knight Securities is a former SEAL, knows Calvin and was happy to back up his private contract story. Anything else Calvin can ad-lib as the situation warrants. Also, Special Forces groups are clannish, thick as thieves. Forbes is a United States Navy SEAL, and he’s got to be as giddy as a schoolboy to suddenly have a fellow SEAL as a partner in crime. On the criminal front, Forbes has done yeoman’s work decimating Zhol’s enemies, so Zhol has every reason to want to double his fun.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“You get paid not to like it, Bear, and we appreciate that.”
Kurtzman sighed. “When does Calvin have his interview with Zhol?”
McCarter glanced at his watch. “He should be meeting the man as we speak.”
“AN AMERICAN SEAL?” Aidar Zhol’s eyes looked Calvin James up and down. The crime lord sat in the casino office. The walls were covered with crushed-red velvet. His thronelike chair was red leather, and the wood of his desk and the carpet matched. Zhol was dressed from head to toe in black. He sat in his blood-red room, draping himself elegantly across his chair, and looked positively satanic.
“Man, did you see the security tape of him whipping that deadbeat’s ass?” Forbes waved a hand. “What else could he be? Besides, I’ve checked his references. He’s who he says he is.”
“Indeed, I do not doubt you.” Zhol leaned back in his chair. His deep voice and accent made him sound like Dracula. “Though he seems a bit small to be a bouncer.”
“I’m not suggesting you hire him as a bouncer, and you aren’t thinking it.” Forbes leaned his massive frame against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “The brother has skills, know what I’m saying?”
Zhol lifted a sculpted eyebrow. “As good as yours?”
“Well, he is old-school SEAL,” Forbes conceded with a grin. “But I can bring him up to speed.”
Zhol’s eyes were unreadable. “And you, Mr. James. What kind of employment are you looking for?”
“Well, like Clay said. I am old school. I gotta start thinking about my retirement. Now, I got some money squirreled away, and I can always sit my ass behind a desk at a security firm. For that matter I’ve got that Navy pension waiting for me. But you know?” James shook his head in disgust. “Fuck that shit. I’m thinking I want to shrivel up and die someplace warm, with a beach and a boat and a lot of willing señoritas as a comfort in my old age. That’ll take some investment money. Honestly? I came up here looking for some fat paychecks.”
A slinky cocktail waitress entered the office with a loaded tray. Her hair was so black and her skin so pale she looked like a vampire. Her lips were blood-red against her complexion. Her dark eyes slid up and down James in a very friendly fashion as she handed him a gin and tonic. Forbes lifted an immense snifter of brandy from the tray and a cigar from an open box. Zhol took mint tea from a gold cup and an unfiltered Turkish cigarette between his little and ring fingers. The girl lit their smokes. One corner of her lips quirked upward and she gave James a lingering look before swiftly disappearing.
Zhol let out a long stream of blue smoke toward the overhead lighting. “So, tell me, Mr. James, what are you willing to do for me?”
“Well, I’d rather not run drugs or pimp little girls. But I still have a few skills.” He sipped his gin. “Tell me, Mr. Zhol. You have enemies?”
Zhol smiled at Forbes. “Significantly fewer than I once had.”
“The law of business is to expand or be swallowed up. You strike me as an expansionist. I have no doubt you’ll be making new enemies, and encountering new problems.” James had kept his attitude relaxed, but he was a trained Special Forces soldier. Such men were a breed apart. Having joined Phoenix Force, he was now the elite of the elite, and one of the most dangerous men on Earth. He let that intensity show through as he stared deep into Zhol’s eyes. “Both of which I can make disappear.”
“Shee-it!” Forbes’s smile lit up the room as he pointed at James, recognizing the eye of the tiger. “I told you, Mr. Zhol. I told you. Just look at that beautiful man. You put me and him together? We could take goddamn Moscow.” Forbes became serious again. “And we have current projects, and we have run into problems. This man would be a fucking force-multiplier, guaranteed.”
Zhol didn’t blink as he stared into James’s eyes. The Phoenix Force commando saw the sociopath behind the flat black eyes and knew the man was a killer. Zhol’s eyes slit almost imperceptibly in decision.
“Mr. Forbes, give Mr. James ten thousand dollars. He will room with you in your suite until we find him his own place. We are on a swift timetable, and you will indeed need to bring him up to speed. However…” Zhol suddenly smiled disarmingly. “Bermet found you pleasing, Mr. James. Did you like her?”
“The Goth girl?” James sat up in his chair. “Oh, hell yes.”
Zhol nodded at Forbes. “Tell Bermet Mr. James’s door will be open to her tonight if she so desires. Tell her she might wish to bring along her friends Dariga and Tatiana.” Zhol shrugged at Calvin. “They’re twins.”
James blinked. “Really.”
Zhol rose and extended his hand. “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. James.” He smiled as they shook hands. “I look forward to a profitable association.”
“Man…” Forbes put a massive hand on James’s shoulder and nodded as Zhol left the office. “I told you this was a good gig.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“We have the Shark.” David McCarter sat, apparently reading the paper, in the terminal. He watched the bullet-headed Russian mobster disembark with a pair of bodyguards. Sharypa Sharkov was a big man, built like a rugby striker who had let himself go. His men weren’t particularly large or imposing, but they scanned the crowd around their boss with hard and searching eyes. The men weren’t mindless muscle. They were shooters, and their right hands never strayed far from the front of their black leather jackets. McCarter subvocalized into his throat mike. His signal was being picked up at the safehouse and bounced to Virginia through the sat link. “Two bodyguards. My instinct is they’re ex-Special Forces. Packing heat.”
“Affirmative, Phoenix One.” Barbara Price confirmed. “Tail is go.”
“Roger that.” McCarter tossed down his paper and walked through the terminal slightly behind and parallel to Sharkov. They stepped out into the drizzly Tajikistani morning. Sharkov stepped into the back of a dilapidated Toyota Land Cruiser. McCarter eyed the vehicle. “Base, according to intel, Sharkov likes to live large, correct?”
“Affirmative, Phoenix One. According to what we got from CIA Moscow Station, Sharkov tries to keep up with Zhol in the style department and usually fails.”
“What’s his usual ride?”
Price looked over the Sharkov report. “He keeps a Mercedes-Benz in every city he has a residence in.”
“Right.” McCarter threw a leg over his BMW F650 Dakar motorcycle. There was another nondescript SUV parked behind the one Sharkov had just gotten in. The vehicles had dents and scratc
hed paint, and had apparently seen hard use over the years. Sharkov’s had one headlight out. There was nothing strange about that. Toyota SUVs were one of the workhorses of the Third World. They were nothing if not reliable. If you just changed the oil every three thousand miles they could limp along for decades doing yeoman’s work. Manning’s eyes narrowed as he took in the tinted windows. He smiled as the SUVs’ engines snarled into life and spit blue smoke into the misting rain. These weren’t workhorses.
They were thoroughbreds.
The dirt and dings were cosmetic. Beneath the sheep’s clothing their V-6 engines were supercharged. David McCarter was a connoisseur of motor vehicles. He took in the run-flat tires and recognized the work. The two Land Cruisers were the product of Asbeck Armoring Bonn. He suspected they were VIP 100 Models, and custom. They would be armored against massive attack, undoubtedly European “extreme protection” B6 category. They would be impervious to direct hits of up to .30-caliber. It would take a .50-caliber, crew-served machine gun or a shoulder-launched rocket to crack them.
McCarter’s instincts spoke to him. Sharkov was going incognito and with maximum protection. The Briton followed the two-car caravan for a couple of blocks, and their destination was evident. “Base, targets are headed for the casino.”
“Affirmative, Phoenix One. It’s your call.”
McCarter considered his options. If his suspicions were correct, he had just located the courier vehicles for the nukes. They needed to be marked. Once they went into the casino they’d be parked in Zhol’s private garage. There were three options. James could go in and tag them, but that would risk his cover. Two, McCarter could send in a team to break into the garage and do it. It probably wouldn’t be too difficult, but security would have to be overcome. There was a good chance that the enemy might know they had been breeched. They wouldn’t know why or by whom, but the enemy security level would rise, and that threatened the entire mission.
Oceans of Fire Page 3
