by Brian Drake
Jennifer Turkel had provided another icy reception for him when he arrived 24-hours earlier, blaming him and his “Agency cowboys” for the problem, but promised she’d do what he told her to make sure the family escaped danger. It was all Stiletto could ask for.
And all he needed for her to do was drive the van.
It was the next morning and Stiletto’s team had been watching Hamin’s apartment all night. He sat at a table in front of a café across the street from the building, and left the table to blend with the sidewalk traffic as Hamin traveled the short distance to the apartment building’s attached multi-level garage. Jennifer rolled up in a black van. Stiletto jumped into the passenger seat. She activated the emergency lights, pressing another button on the dash that stalled the engine. She turned the key and cranked the motor several times as cars behind them stacked up and honked. Stiletto powered down his window and waved them around.
The van looked plain and indeed had no rear seats, but it had reinforced bumpers for ramming. Stiletto’s plan called for use of such a bumper.
When Shahram Hamin exited the garage in his white Mercedes, Jennifer Turkel hit the kill switch again and started the motor. She followed the Mercedes into traffic.
Iranian agent Shahram Hamin placed the briefcase and laptop on the passenger seat of the Mercedes. Before starting the car, he opened a panel built into the floor of the back seat and checked the Glock-18 machine pistol nestled in the compartment. He had two 32-round magazines inside his jacket.
He didn’t wear just any old jacket. Hamin liked to travel and live in style. The jacket had set him back $1200, black leather with a silk lining, which went with his lightened hair. Style salons were one aspect of Western culture he didn’t dislike. His natural black hair always looked like a dead cat on his head. Properly styled, parted down the middle, and touched with blonde highlights, he looked hip and contemporary.
He started the car and turned on the stereo. The speakers came to life playing the jazz CD he had picked up on his last trip to the U.S., steady beats punctuated by a saxophone filled the car. He drove out of the garage.
[something of his b.g. and start with Iranian intelligence]
The shootout at the lab had not been expected and, because of it, the entire network he’d built to smuggle bomb parts into Iran had to vanish. Already fellow agents around the world were pulling out and liquidating loose ends.
As far as Hamin knew, Blaser had been the only saboteur. His chief had not said whether or not other components had also been compromised. In the briefcase, he had the corrected blueprints to the needed krytrons. Either Iranian scientists could continue their assembly, or they’d have to find a suitable foreign replacement, appropriately pressured, of course, to do the job.
Hamin’s cell rang. “Yes?”
“We’re behind you a few cars back,” one of his teammates said. “No sign that you’re being followed.”
“Okay.” Hamin hung up.
He knew somebody was back there. Had to be.
Stiletto dialed his support team. The other agents used non-descript vehicles to shadow Hamin, rotating every few blocks.
Jennifer stayed as far back as she could to avoid detection.
The second unit called to report that Hamin was heading for the motorway and, more than likely, the airport. Stiletto gave the order. Get lined up to box him in. Standard rendition protocol.
“Shahram, I keep seeing the same two cars.”
“I’m almost to the motorway. Stop them.”
Hamin put the phone down. As he drove through an intersection, a black van on his left ran the light and plowed into his front fender with a terrible crash, glass shattering, metal twisting.
The shock of the impact jolted Hamin, but the belt held. The driver’s window poured glass bits onto Hamin’s lap. The jazz kept playing as the car spun 360 degrees, the tires smoking, the acrid smell of burnt rubber filling the air. The side airbags burst open and Hamin screamed. The car stopped. Gasping, Hamin felt the side of his face, stung by the impact of the airbag. The skin wasn’t cut. His vision spun. The jazz kept playing. He slammed a palm against the stereo control and turned it off.
He grabbed the Glock-18 as somebody wrenched open the door.
Scott Stiletto leapt from the van with the Colt in hand, finger off the trigger. Hamin was reaching into the back seat. Scott approached the Mercedes as his support team raced through the stopped traffic. He pulled open the door. Hamin swung up a machine pistol and Scott dropped and rolled. The first burst cut through the air where he’d been and the impact on the dry asphalt flared through his back. Hamin fired a second burst into the black van, the bullets smacking the bulletproof windshield but not cracking it. Hamin slid over the hood of his car and took off running. He carried the briefcase along with his gun.
More pistol fire cracked behind Scott. He rolled over and looked. Two more Iranians, running his way. His support team fired over the hoods of stopped traffic, drivers and pedestrians screaming, running away if they could. Stiletto jumped up and slid across the Mercedes and ran after Hamin.
Stiletto #2: The Fairmont Maneuver is available now!
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