by Brian Drake
The meeting didn’t last long, nor did Blaser have much to contribute. The new man did all the talking.
“You will build each krytron,” Stiletto said, “to these specifications.” He handed Blaser a sheet of paper with a line drawing of a krytron on it, a crude blueprint with notes on one side.
“But. . .there are incorrect parts listed here.”
“Exactly. That’s what you’ll give the Iranians.”
In return, Stiletto explained, the Blasers would have full protection, ‘round the clock surveillance, and the option to move to the United States once the operation was finished. The deal included the choice to work at universities in Southern California or Chicago where his knowledge of physics would be greatly appreciated, and he’d have the chance to put that knowledge to use on state-of-the-art equipment.
It wasn’t the arrangement Blaser wanted. He didn’t want to leave his home. But to refuse the Iranians meant death—their threats had been clear. He had no choice. Blaser agreed and left the bar, the door to the meeting room closing softly behind him.
Jennifer folded her arms. Stiletto waited for her objection.
“What do we do,” she said, “when the Iranians discover the ruse and kill the family anyway?”
“We don’t let it get that far. Once we have the network the Iranians are using mapped out, we pull the Blasers out and roll up the bad guys.”
“That’s too great a risk.”
“You field people are crazy.”
“And you sit behind a desk and snoop for gossip at embassy parties, so what do you know?”
“I do more than ride a desk. I shoot expert with the nine-millimeter.”
“Ever kill a man?” Stiletto said.
“No.”
“Then you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her face flushed. Stiletto moved by her and out of the room. He took a seat at the bar and asked for a beer and felt Jennifer’s eyes stabbing through his back.
He had to be, on one hand, cold about the project, but he liked the professor. Anybody who would take the risk he was taking by contacting them had to have a reserve of bravery that would make the average man weak by comparison. When the time came, he wanted to be the agent who took care of the man and his family. He’d make sure he was.
Lars Blaser supplied the faulty krytrons, three times a year, delivering each to a dead drop specified by Shahram Hamin, his Iranian handler. Blaser stayed in contact with Jennifer and met with Stiletto on a regular basis.
Agents kept watch over the family and cataloged the Iranian agent, tracing his movements all over Europe and following Hamin to Tehran on several occasions.
Everything went according to plan until Blaser sent an S.O.S. that Scott Stiletto, as intended, personally answered.
Chapter One
Switzerland – Present Day
Travel the world to hide in an alley. The story of his life, Stiletto decided. Sometimes the “alley” was a hole in the desert or some other nook in hostile territory, but the story remained the same. Stiletto didn’t mind, really. He wasn’t much of a sightseer. It was a job, and one that Stiletto wouldn’t trade for anything else. Especially this assignment. Blaser needed help; he had responded without question and come prepared. A Colt Combat Commander .45 auto, with its customized hair trigger for rapid fire, hung under Scott’s left arm. His car contained other tools of the trade. All he lacked was a nice cigar to help kill time, but the scent and smoke from the stogie wasn’t exactly part of covert tradecraft.
He stood in the alley between two buildings overlooking the center plaza of a large mall where he was supposed to meet the Blasers for their S.O.S. extraction. The Iranians were onto them. The ruse had been discovered, as was inevitable once the Iranian tried to use the krytrons, and now the C.I.A. needed to get the family to safety. Time to make good on past promises.
Scott shifted his body now and then to not get too uncomfortable, but he’d been standing against the jagged rock wall for two hours. His feet, encased in pair of running shoes, were also tiring of the effort, despite the flat concrete ground. Luckily there were no smelly Dumpsters or stray cats chasing rodents.
When Lars sent him a message about needing extraction, Scott dropped everything and jumped on a C.I.A. plane to Bern. He had visited with the physicist several times over the last few years, cultivating not only a business relationship but a friendship as well. A no-no, for sure, but one thing Stiletto had learned is that you cannot, despite best efforts, turn yourself into a machine, even if under orders. It is the nature of humans to form connections, sometimes at a cost, and one must be willing to accept that cost or not truly live. Stiletto figured the world was cold enough already so one might as well live life to the full.
But that also made this mission personal.
Another no-no. Stiletto never went about callously fracturing or ignoring orders and proper protocol, but sometimes it had to be done.
As in this case.
A scratch on the concrete. . .behind him? Back to the wall, wincing as the rock dug into his spine, he looked at the darkened walkway between the buildings lit by small lamps in the outer walls.
Another scrape. Above! Stiletto snapped out the .45 and aimed up as a gunman started to lean over the edge of the roof. One blast from the Combat Commander turned the top of the assassin’s head into a misty red spray.
Stiletto ran into the plaza. As soon as lamplight hit him the submachine guns started. Stiletto dodged left, right, and dived into the entry way of a restaurant. He looked back at the roofs of the buildings opposite. The two shooters adjusted their aim and fired at the doorway, shattering the glass behind Scott. He covered the back of his neck as the glass rained down, spreading across the ground like spilled water. When the last shard struck, he aimed around the corner and let two more rounds go, a third for insurance. One of the gunners fell back, firing a burst skyward. His partner retreated. Stiletto winged a shot at him that missed.
Scott left the doorway, his shoes crunching the glass, taking deep, steady breaths as he raced along the wall of the building to the west side parking lot.
A four-door Mercedes screeched around the corner, the surviving shooter leaning out the passenger side.
Scott had four rounds left in his gun. He raised it in a two-hand grip and stitched the four rounds across the windshield. Two found the driver. The Mercedes veered away, the shooter gripping the doorframe as his body lurched with the car. Scott reloaded as the car collided with a lamppost, knocking the post over like a chopped tree, the bulbs exploding in a bright flash. The shooter, having been thrown free of the car upon impact, landed on the asphalt face-first, a few feet from the car. Stiletto approached as the shooter started to rise. The man looked at Scott in a daze. Scott shot through the man’s head, splitting it open and painting part of the car and the ground with pieces of red flesh and bone bits.
Stiletto ran to his car and started the motor.
He wanted to check the Blaser home before reporting to the embassy. The gunmen at the mall suggested the worst, but what if. . .
Presently Stiletto switched off the lights and guided the rental to the curb a few doors down from the house. The Blasers owned a single-level at the end of the street with a mix of open space and trees behind the home.
Scott followed the sidewalk. The night’s chill dried the sweat on his face. Street lamps lit the way. The houses on either side showed no signs of life at this hour--until he passed one fence and woke a dog. He ignored the barking and strode on. When he came abreast of the Blaser house, he dropped behind a car parked on the street. The dog kept barking. The Blaser house showed as little life as the rest of the neighborhood. Until the front curtain moved.
A subtle movement, sure, but the kind of quick check a sentry would make in case the barking signaled the arrival of a rescue team. Which meant something in the house might be worth rescuing.
Two vehicles sat in the driveway, one a small passenger car and the other a large S
UV. From his dealings with Blaser in the past, only Blaser’s wife drove. Lars biked or used public transit. The SUV was an enemy crew wagon.
He thought of shooting the tires but dismissed the thought when he decided on another use for the vehicle. Scott slid into the shadows on the side of the house and climbed over a gate, the old wood wobbling a little. Landing hard on a concrete path with yard tools to his left, he stayed low and advanced. The Blasers had no pets to disturb.
Darkened windows lined the side of the house. When Scott reached the corner, he stopped and scanned the yard. Swimming pool, garden, some trees. A pool of light spilled across a portion of the patio. Shadows moved across the light.
A shovel, rake, and smaller pieces of garden equipment lay against the fence to Scott’s right. He put away his pistol and grabbed the shovel. He rounded the corner to see the sliding glass doors that provided a partial view of the family room and adjacent kitchen. A man holding a stubby submachine gun focused his attention on the family room.
Stiletto launched the shovel like a spear. He threw high to compensate for the heavy front end. As the shovel arced and began to descend toward the glass, Stiletto hauled out the .45. The metal blade struck the glass low but achieved the desired result. The glass shattered, first in the middle, then spider-cracks weakened the rest of the pane. The glass cascaded across the pool of light. The armed man turned with his weapon up. Before he completed the turn, Stiletto detached the gunman’s jaw from his face with a .45 slug.
A woman screamed. Stiletto charged through the opening, more glass crunching under him. He swung left, right. Only Mrs. Blaser and her two kids occupied the family room.
“Where are the others?”
Rubber soles squeaked on the kitchen tile and spun and Stiletto fired at the gunman, who ducked back. The slug tore a hole in the wall.
“Far corner and stay low!” Stiletto snatched the dead man’s automatic weapon and jammed the stock into his shoulder. He heard Mrs. Blaser telling her kids to move. Scott watched the kitchen and the hallway to the left that led to the front door and living room.
The second gunman rounded the corner ahead, attempting to come down the dark hall, but stopped short. Stiletto stitched him stomach to chest. The gunman decorated the wall with crimson flecks and bits of bone as he flopped forward onto the carpet.
The blast still stung Stiletto’s ears. He moved backward to the Blasers. “Any more?”
They stared wide-eyed, the woman holding her young son close on one side and her teen daughter close on the other.
“Any more?” he said again.
The boy held up two fingers.
“Two more on only these two?” Scott said.
“No more, just them,” the woman said.
“Mrs. Blaser, I was supposed to meet you at the mall and get you all out of here. Where’s Lars?”
“They took him.” Her voice shook.
“Where?”
“The university.”
Stiletto grabbed a cell phone from a jacket pocket and dialed.
When Jennifer Turkel answered, he identified himself.
“Cops are all over the mall, Scott!”
“It was an ambush. The Iranians got to them first but I’m with Blaser’s family now.” He explained the rest.
“I’m on my way with a tac team.”
“Just you and one or two others. They’re frightened enough.”
“You don’t sound like you’re staying.”
“They’ve taken Lars to the university. We can’t lose him.”
“What do you mean Lars?”
Stiletto hung up.
“Mrs. Blaser, look at me. I’m Scott, a friend of your husbands.”
She nodded.
“My people are on the way to get you but I need to find Lars.”
“Go,” she said.
“The person coming for you is named Jennifer.” He described her. “She’ll have some other men with her. You’ll be taken to the embassy where it’s safe.”
The daughter said, “You’ll bring my Daddy?”
“You bet, sweetheart. You’ll be together soon.”
Stiletto found the keys to the SUV in the pocket of one of the dead gunmen. He transferred gear from his car and used the GPS to locate the university.
He drove with hands tight on the wheel. He could not face the family with failure. And that meant he had to rescue Lars Blaser or die trying.
Had he been a student at the university, Stiletto might have known where to find the physics department. Then he nixed the idea. During his university days, he hadn’t even cared if such a department existed.
He parked the SUV about a block away and entered the campus on foot, shoulder bag containing various goodies across his back. He found a campus directory and plotted his way to the lab. It was a small building detached from a larger hall. Scott spotted a large sedan and another SUV identical to the one he’d taken parked near the front door.
He stayed behind a tree and watched for a while. Nobody stood near the sedan, but two men in leather jackets wandered around the SUV, taking turns circling the vehicle and scanning the area.
Stiletto moved his bag to the ground and carefully opened it. He took out a smoke grenade and clipped it to his belt. The Heckler & Koch UMP-45 also inside the bag already had a mag locked and a suppressor on the barrel. An infrared scope sat atop the HK’s receiver. Stiletto stowed two more 30-round mags in his pockets.
He watched the sentries circle the SUV again. Lining up one in the sights of his weapon, Scott pulled the trigger. The slug hit the sentry low in the neck, splattering the driver’s side of the SUV. The sentry dropped. The other had his gun in one hand and a radio in the other. As he reported the attack, Stiletto shot him in the mouth, the slug opening a hole in the back of the man’s head and sending a spray of gore outward. He put down the HK and pulled the pin on the smoke grenade.
The door to the lab opened and three more gunmen emerged. Stiletto tossed the grenade. As it rolled across the asphalt, thick white smoke spewed, creating a thick cloud between Scott and the gunmen. Stiletto peered through the scope and lined up the man-shaped heat signatures. The gunmen coughed and called to one another, spreading out. Stiletto triggered short bursts, shifting his aim after each, and the men collapsed. Stiletto left the tree and raced across the space between him and the lab, reaching the door. As he ran through, more gunfire crackled from down the hall. Stiletto dropped flat and fired back, then jumped up and dived through an open doorway. Automatic gunfire peppered the doorway and then stopped.
The room was dark as well, lab tables and stools spread about. Stiletto retreated to a corner. The shooting had come from the left side of the entry hall. He heard two men shouting; a third man screamed and shouted back. Stiletto recognized the third man. Blaser. At least he was still alive.
But the enemy had Stiletto pinned in place, outnumbered, and they also held the ace. They also couldn’t leave via the hallway without crossing his line of sight.
More talking from down the hall. Two more shots smacked the doorway, splintering the frame. Despite his distance from the wooden shrapnel, Stiletto jumped with each hit. They wanted him to tempt him into making a play for the hallway.
Scott looked around. The windows sure looked wide enough.
He slung the HK and flipped the latch on one window, easing it open. He slipped outside and dropped into a squat among the trimmed hedges alongside the wall. They poked and prodded at him but provided cover as Stiletto made his way to the corner, around which was the rear door of the building. He stopped to listen. When the lock on the rear entrance snapped and the door opened, Stiletto readied his weapon. Two men emerged, Blaser and a gunman. A car started on the front side. Tires squealed. Stiletto fired once. The gunman dropped. Blaser let out a yell, but stopped when he saw Scott. Blaser wiped blood spatter off his face and said: “Hamin—”
Tires screeched again, the sedan rounding the corner. The driver, Shahram Hamin, stopped short, the tires sm
oking, slammed the car into reverse. As the car shot backward, Stiletto fired at the driver but none of the shots connected. The speeding car raced out of range.
Blaser grabbed Stiletto’s left arm, almost pulling him down. “He has them! He has them!”
Stiletto shoved Blaser back. “I got your family out of the house.”
“No! He has my krytron blueprints!”
Sirens in the distance. Growing louder as the local police converged.
“We gotta run, stay in the shadows.”
Stiletto and Blaser slipped away as two police cars pulled up in front of the lab. Back in the SUV, Stiletto drove and Blaser caught his breath. As they passed through an intersection, Stiletto said: “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“I knew you’d come. You said my family is safe?”
“Back at the embassy. That’s where I’m taking you.”
“He has my blueprints. They made me correct them! Now they can find somebody else. All our work, Scott. It meant nothing!”
Stiletto clenched his jaw. There was no argument to reply with.
The only thing they could do was grab Hamin and get the blueprints back. The most important part of the mission, to Scott, anyway, was the safety of the Blasers, and that had been accomplished. Now Stiletto could scorch the earth looking for the man truly responsible for the situation.
Jennifer Turkel said: “Leaving apartment with briefcase and laptop.”
“I see him.”
Stiletto’s voice reached her via a standard Bluetooth unit in his right ear. In the age of such a common sight, the fancy covert com units of the past weren’t necessary.
