Sabotage: Beginnings

by LS Silverii

  He canted his head. “You okay?”

  “Me, okay? Didn’t you say something about speaking in Ben’s defense?” Her glare created more heat than the desert’s sun. He saw the moisture in her eyes, but knew his words would hold no solace.

  “I’m sorry for saying that earlier. You know I got no sympathy for him.”

  She blinked back a tear. “Now you get soft on me? No time, cowboy. This is escalating at a rapid pace. We both risk organizational reprisal if he is not stopped soon.”

  Justice walked to the rear of the vehicle to grab his gear bag. The images he was about to load onto his camera caused a heavy weight to drop in his core. He yanked at the nylon bag’s waxed zipper to check the battery and connection that would transmit photographs back to CIA headquarters.

  Usually dicey at best, the technology for this mission was exceptional. He assumed the Agency wanted to show their best assets in front of his Israeli counterpart. Every intelligence agency was always looking to one up each other.

  Justice mashed the connection button that pinpointed their position via the GPS system of triangulation coordinates. Within minutes, CIA headquarters would also experience the inhumane shit their experiment had created. Justice doubted anyone back in Langley, Virginia truly believed—let alone understood—the horrific effects of their twenty-five man wrecking crew, gone awry.

  Formerly, the CIA had focused global efforts on collecting and analyzing human intelligence—HUMINT—as the main player in the intelligence community (IC). After the black eye of 9/11, focuses changed to an offensive posture that relied on cyber-operations and para-military offensives using the Special Activities Division—SAD.

  The aggressive tactics used included training militias and making targeted assassinations. Justice was the perfect fit for both. His ability to communicate and natural leadership charisma led to numerous successes in recruiting and leading civil disorder demonstrations and violent coups of brutal regimes. He was also a natural born killer.

  It was the latter that drew Justice into the CIA’s Operation Taz. The Agency experimented with twenty-five carefully selected citizens. Most had military, law enforcement or criminal backgrounds. They were meant to be disposable from the start. Each was immersed in highly specialized survival and combat training, and subjected to intense psychological restructuring through drug, counseling and torture sessions.

  Each test subject was globally dispatched to wreak havoc on the indigenous people of a particular region. The goal was to create an environment of terror from an anonymous source. Disconnected from national affiliations, and with identities erased, the subjects were meant to be disposable. CIA operatives would then gain the locals’ trust by eliminating the murderers. The goal was to gain regional cooperation by killing off their own operatives.

  Problem was, the killers—now experts at their task—began to kill the CIA agents. As with anything repetitious, they also grew bored. Creative and grotesque imaginations led to mass murders beyond the scope of anything the CIA could’ve ever imagined. Shock soared inside the Beltway.

  Justice recalled each of the previous twenty-four experimental subjects he’d tracked around the globe to eliminate. His only regret was that each had once been naïve of the hell they’d experience before signing up with the Agency. By the time he was assigned, killing them was the most merciful thing he could do.

  He pushed the reality of the CIA’s human experiment from his mind as the device buzzed. Muscles clinched in his forearms as the zing of a connection signaled he was on live stream with his handlers back at base camp Langley. He lifted the camera, held it before him, and introduced himself, the date, time and location. There was no mention of Batya Cohen—she didn’t exist.

  “Let me show you what you’re responsible for causing,” he sneered into the viewfinder before flipping the camera so it pointed away from him.

  Careful in his footing, Justice circled the camp’s perimeter to show the big picture of devastation. Bile rose in his belly as he noticed the symmetry of the death scene. Ben was becoming much more efficient and less filled with rage during his kills. Bodies formed patterns and were purposefully posed to leave messages. It would now become Justice’s job to decipher the puzzle’s pieces.

  He pressed the earpiece deeper into his ear.

  “What do you make of it?” asked an anonymous voice back at HQ.

  “I don’t know.” Justice pushed the circle in as he rounded the camp on his second pass. This time, bodies became more clear. They looked to be grouped by men’s ages and various stages of consumption. Justice hurried past the pile of smaller bodies.

  He swatted at the flies that swarmed the young boys’ corpses. Vomit spewed through his nostrils as he pressed his hand over his mouth. He looked for Batya, but she’d taken a position safely out of the camera’s view.

  “You okay?” asked the CIA handler.

  Justice didn’t bother with an answer—it wasn’t as if they gave a shit.

  The camera shook as Justice made his third pass around the campsite. Injuries and mutilations became obvious. Strips of flesh removed, objects impaled through bodies, faces frozen in fear and ropes around wrists showed the method of organizing and enslaving the entire population.

  “Everyone watched. God help the last to die.”

  “Justice, you a holy roller now?” Another voice asked. The arrogance of laughter laced the person’s comment.

  Justice swiped mucus and watery eyes onto his shirtsleeve, “Have some fucking respect. Not everyone is a terrorist.”

  “They may grow up to be, so better to deal with them now is what I always say.”

  “That’s enough, Robert,” snapped a third voice over Justice’s earpiece. Justice knew that voice to be Carl Dunnigan, a team supervisor.

  Justice closed the lens cap. “Robert Boyd?”

  “No names,” snapped Dunnigan.

  “No names my ass. That prick Boyd is nothing but a desk jockey—get him off the feed.” Justice growled.

  Boyd’s voice wavered. “Turn the video back on.”

  Justice shoved the camera back into the padded carry case. “Peep show’s over, perv. Get you kicks somewhere else.”

  Dunnigan’s orders were harsh. “You do as you’re told, or else.”

  Justice lifted his face to the desert sky. He breathed in one, two breaths and allowed his quivering muscles to settle down before responding. Pure adrenaline-fueled rage flamed within him. He hated the smug bureaucrats back at HQ. They’d never served in the military or operated in the field. They were promotional faster trackers, bound to a cubicle, who liked to drop hints of their CIA credentials at happy hours.

  Justice held the microphone close to his dried lips. “Not you too, huh, Dunnigan? Unlike Boyd, we’ve actually served together, but I guess in the end the suit is more important than the code.”

  “What are you talking about, Justice?”

  Justice detected uncertainty in Dunnigan’s voice—he’d expected better from the long-time spook.

  “Choose your battles carefully, Carl,” Justice warned.

  He snapped the power off and waved his fingers across his throat to signal Batya that he was no longer on the call. She placed a notebook and pen in her blouse pocket as she neared him.

  “Problems on the front of your home?” she asked.

  The slandered slang broke the tension for Justice. He touched the outside of her arm. “Trouble on the home front, you mean?”

  “Whatever. As long as you get the point,” she bristled at his correction.

  She spun away and worked to rewrap the shawl around her head, thus concealing her beautiful face and hair. Justice pumped his fist in disappointment, but knew he had to focus on their situation.

  “Sometimes the suits back at headquarters forget what its like to work the field. Many have never been out here, and that makes it impossible for the real operatives to get the job done.”

  “In Mossad, we have no bureaucrats. Only employees that
not do actual field work are secretarial staff.” She finished tucking her long curly locks beneath the headdress. “Those who never did, will never tell those who do, how to do it.”

  “I envy your chain of command.” Justice squinted, taking in Batya’s eyes that peered through the slit of the checkered cotton cloth.

  “I know your frustration though. Lets get this crazy killer and go home.”

  Justice moved closer. “Your home or mine?”

  Batya shoved him in the abdomen, “You flirty with me at a time and place like this?” He watched her roll her light eyes and snort at him.

  “I’ve got to cope with death somehow. Beats swallowing a bullet.” He sheepishly raised and lowered both shoulders in contrition.

  Batya leaned against the solid front bumper of their vehicle. “Okay, good point. I forgive you, but still creepy.”

  “Well, that’s a start.” He gathered their supplies, preparing to head out. “Tell me something Batya, are you really?”

  “Really what?”

  “Your name means daughter of God. Are you really?” Justice teased.

  “Yes, I most certainly am. We are all God’s chosen people—His children. The Jews, I mean.”

  Justice noticed she fidgeted while making sure she clarified the part about the Jews. He’d keep that slip-up in mind in case it was needed down the road.

  “It’s a tough position the original Batya was in back then,” Justice said. He waited until her attention was directed away from the notebook she’d retrieved from her pocket and back to him. “Pharaoh’s daughter, and still, she saved Moses from the Nile. She could’ve easily lost her life. Why’d she do it?”

  “Easy answer—it’s the right thing to do.”

  “It’s easy for you to disregard your agency’s rules if it interferes with the right thing to do?” Justice put the suggestive words in her mouth. He climbed into the driver’s seat and paused, lost in the dilemma he’d presented for her reply.

  “I love my country, like the Biblical Batya loved her father, but human life is worth taking the risk.”

  “I knew you had a soft heart.” Justice patted his hand over his heart and let a slight laugh linger.

  Batya whipped around. Her expression flattened to a cold indifference. “I know you are trying to relieve your mind and conscience of the horrors we’ve witnessed here today, but do not tease or test my faithfulness. I have killed and will die to defend my mother country, or my agency. My parents named me Batya. Had it been me, and I knew Moses would have presented a threat to my country, I would have drown the baby then and there.”

  Justice pushed his palms up in surrender. “Whoa, no need to take it so personally. I was just trying to get some distance from this hell. Sorry if I offended you.”

  “Thank you. Twice you’ve said ‘I’m sorry’ today. Maybe it is you with a soft heart.”

  Batya patted his chest over his heart, their faces within inches of each other. Justice felt the warmth of her breath, through the scarf, huff against his face.

  His smile vanished. His gaze zeroed in on the small, cracked rearview mirror. With his right elbow, he nudged her back into the passenger compartment. He moved slightly and when his hand reappeared, he gripped a weapon.

  “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  He snarled, “We got company.”

  Chapter 7

  Some of the most gorgeous sunsets witnessed by Justice had been in the Middle East. That dusk was no different, as another night quickly chased the day’s heat into submission. Brilliant orange and blues intermingled in what was becoming an ink black canvas. Justice saw the colors, but he focused on the platoon of men that scurried over the ridge.

  He pressed his left hand along the submachine gun strapped across his shoulders. It was fully loaded and the selector switch was set to three-round bursts. He mashed his left boot heel into the floorboard as he cursed beneath his breath. He’d fucked up by turning his back to the ridge where Ben Ford had discarded the Popi tribesman’s body. Anyone spotting it would naturally enter the valley to investigate. He’d screwed up, and now had about thirty armed men heading this way.

  Batya watched through her passenger’s side mirror. Her hands solidly resting on her rifle, Justice noticed the tunic rise and fall quickly across her chest.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” she snapped.

  “Quick assessment. Still enough distance to engage them,” Justice said.

  “Who do you think they are?”

  Justice flashed a closer look with his binoculars, “Their uniforms are from the Afghani security forces.” He set the binoculars against the center console and pressed a hand against Batya’s left bicep. “I’d hate like hell to start dropping innocent men, but I’m not above maiming a few for our sake.”

  Justice blinked against the dusty winds that sent sharp granules of sand across his face. His body tensed at the reality of their being taken captive. He’d endure torture before they beheaded him on film, but Batya. He winced inwardly at the thoughts of what they’d do to a female—a Jewish female.

  “Getting closer,” her voice waxed with anxiety.

  “Let’s give them one chance to acknowledge and then start shooting.”

  Batya nodded as she slid the rifle across her shins—ready to open fire. The further away they were, the better their chances of outshooting them.

  “Here goes nothing.” Justice spun around and kneeled in his seat. He raised an empty hand and waved to the advancing platoon. There was nothing friendly about their non-response. They continued to encroach like nasty, hungry ants at a park-side picnic.

  “No response. That means they are either too stupid to show diplomacy or too determined to neglect it for our sake. Their graves to be filled,” Batya whispered as her rifle crossed both knees and swung to the rear. Her head tilted against her left shoulder to match an eye with the scope.

  Justice raised his rifle too. “Here goes nothing.”

  Justice heard the gunshot milliseconds before he felt the explosion and the driver’s side front tire deflate. His eyes ripped open as he turned back around to scan for the threat.

  “Son of a bitch, they flanked us.”

  He flinched at the loud squelch of an old bullhorn. “Place down your weapons.” The man, who spoke the southeastern Indo-Iranian language of Pashto coughed into the microphone, “We are the Afghan Local Police. Lay down your weapons. We only wish to speak with you.”

  “Pashto, he’s a local. What are your thoughts?” Batya’s question seemed uncharacteristically naïve.

  Justice understood her nervousness. She’d downplayed her concerns of being a female Jew in a fanatically conservative portion of the Muslim country. She knew the odds if captured—she also knew what they’d do to her.

  Justice released his grip on the rifle—it hung against his chest as he lifted both hands above his head.

  “Not like we’ve got much choice.”

  Batya agreed and raised her gloved hands in surrender.

  Justice whispered for her attention as they each exited the Jeep on different sides, “Any signs of aggression and we battle these fuckers. I’d rather die in combat than kneel as they saw off my skull.”

  She sighed. Her hand lingered on the console—he touched her.

  He fought the sensation of the terrible feeling he had brewing inside. He’d have to stay cool to deflect their suspicions. How they hell would they explain being in the midst of this massacre?

  “I’ll signal by saying something in Yiddish. I doubt they understand that tongue,” Justice said and then flashed a quick smile. “Lets do this.”

  Each remained on opposite sides of the Jeep. It would allow at least one to begin shooting from behind cover. It soon wouldn’t matter—they were surrounded. Justice scanned the horde to spot the leader—not the highest ranking, but the leader—the influencer. He’d trained enough foreign forces to know that those with rank or high positions were seldom
respected by their troops. It wasn’t uncommon for them to be killed by one of their own during a battle with opposition forces.

  Justice spotted him. The man was razor thin, but his eyes shone like lightning and the rare glimpse of teeth presented straight and white. Immediately, Justice knew this man must have spent time in the United States or somewhere with quality dental care to sport those choppers. Out in this territory, clean, straight white teeth were impossible.

  “United State Security Forces,” Justice spoke past the others and directly to the man. He stood about a foot and a half taller than most of them, so it wasn’t difficult to avoid their chatter.

  “Speak with Jabar. He is ALP leader,” the man said in Pashto. His eyes shifted toward an overweight slob dressed in a ridiculously ornate uniform. Medals clanked from streaming ribbons, and a sword jabbed at everyone who stood behind or beside him.

  “I’m speaking with you—the real man in charge.” Justice’s words were direct and forceful.

  “No, you must speak with him. In Pashto or Dari. He speaks no English.”

  Justice smiled at the man’s courage for speaking English and thought he had an ally. “He speaks no English? Then how can he command a British and US-trained police force? Fuck him—I want to speak with the boss. You.”

  Justice felt a mushy grip fall flaccid upon his left bicep. He suspected it was Jabar, so he hesitated before turning his attention toward the man. It was a total show of disrespect.

  “Can I help you?” Justice asked in a broken Dari dialect.

  Jabar sucked in his gut. The flashy uniform and stolen medals looked crumpled on his paunch frame. The commander looked up to face Justice—neither backed down.

  “I am Afghan Local Police commander Jabar bin Hamid. You will speak only to me. I am in charge of this district and in charge here today. Do you understand me?” His fat fingers looked like stuffed sausage rolls as his right forefinger waggled inches from Justice’s face.

  “Yes, commander. I will speak with you.” Justice inched closer to tower over Jabar. “We are here on behalf of our government to investigate a suspected serial killer. We shall fully cooperate with you, as we expect your full cooperation as peacekeeping professionals.