Uncommon Assassins

by F. Paul Wilson

  No more time for hesitation. The moment of truth.

  Harry rose to his feet, covering the ground in easy, unhurried strides as he moved toward the Gulfstream.

  Thirty-five meters.

  The leather jacket hung easily on his tall frame, open, his hands only inches away from his weapons. Last resort.

  Twenty-five meters, moving from the shadows now. Two Libyans within the threat matrix, two more near the back of the plane. The fifth had disappeared up the stairs. None of them were visibly armed. The Paraguayans might look the other way for many things, but an open display of weaponry?

  That was pushing the envelope.

  Fifteen meters and he saw HARROW glance his way, concern registering on his face as they made eye contact. The terrorist spoke into the ear of his son, lowering the little boy to the ground.

  It was now or never. “Salaam alaikum, brother Abdullah,” Harry called out, still moving forward, his arms outstretched in greeting. He was painfully vulnerable now.

  Fortune favors the audacious.

  He could see the bewilderment, the indecision in the eyes of HARROW and the two Libyans. Fatal indecision—every step took him closer to his target.

  The little boy peeped out from behind his father’s legs, regarding Harry with a childish curiosity. An innocence. “How do you know my name?”

  Harry shrugged, watching the Libyans out of the corner of his eye. The big one from the safe house had a hand inside his jacket. His short companion was on a Motorola shortwave, talking to the rest of the team, undoubtedly. Zero hour.

  “I come from the base,” Harry replied in perfect Arabic. Al-Qaeda. “My name is Ibrahim al-Libi. The doctor, may Allah bless him and grant him health, sends his regards.”

  Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri.

  An expression of pleased surprise broke across HARROW’s face. “Alaikum salaam, my brother.”

  Disregarding his bodyguards, he took a step forward, his arms outstretched. Harry glimpsed the little boy standing a couple feet behind his father, his thumb stuck firmly between his lips.

  God forgive me, Harry breathed, feeling a tide of emotion, almost panic, wash over him. There was no point—not now. This wasn’t a man. This was a target. Yes, a target. HARROW.

  His left hand slipped down to his pocket as they embraced, kissing on both cheeks in the traditional greeting of the Middle East. No body armor, he could feel that—just flesh beneath the terrorist’s shirt.

  The Kahr slid smoothly from the polished leather of its holster and he drew Abdullah in close, jamming the gun into his ribs. He could feel the man’s body tense against his and he squeezed the trigger once, twice. Point-blank range. Hollow point slugs ripping through muscle and tissue.

  Blood and bits of bone sprayed into the air as HARROW staggered toward his son, clutching at the wound. Harry shot him twice more with the Kahr, high in the chest this time. He fell backward, splayed out on the tarmac.

  A woman’s scream rent the air, shock and sorrow mingling. Time itself seemed to slow down. He glimpsed the bodyguards reacting, the big man coming out of the back of the Volvo five meters away, the pump-action shotgun in his hands. Primary target.

  The Colt materialized in Harry’s right hand, the Libyan’s face coming into focus through those straight-eight Heinie sights.

  His first shot went wild, the suppressed .45 sounding like a hammer blow—drowned out in the roar of the Gulfstream’s turbofans.

  Steady, he breathed, hearing the cold, metallic sound of the shotgun being racked. Round in the chamber.

  Adrenaline flooding through his body, he threw the nearly empty Kahr away, bringing up his left hand to steady his grip on the .45. Squeezing the trigger with a slow, steady motion.

  The heavy slug smashed into the Libyan’s throat, sending the man staggering against the side of the car, clutching at his destroyed vocal chords. Out of action.

  Next target. A bullet flashed past his ear, the smaller bodyguard standing there, his Kimber blazing fire. Harry threw himself behind the Volvo, taking cover. He rolled over onto his stomach, staring across the tarmac at bin Abdullah’s wife.

  Tears streaming down her face, she knelt there on the asphalt, cradling HARROW’s head in her lap. Her fingers caressed his cheek, coming away stained with blood.

  Their son lay across his father’s chest, weeping as he tugged at his father’s shirt with all of his five-year-old might. The picture of grief. Lives destroyed in the mere seconds since he’d fired those first shots.

  It was at that moment that the flame reached the Komatsu’s fuel tank. The explosion smote Harry’s ears, a fireball boiling into the Paraguayan night.

  “Firefly. Firefly!” He rose up from behind the Volvo, catching the Libyan distracted and silhouetted against the flames. “Execute, execute, execute!”

  The Libyan started to turn, started to react, but it wasn’t going to be soon enough.

  The two shots resounded as one, the classic double-tap. The small man reeled, crumpling to the tarmac, his legs kicking spasmodically.

  Harry looked back, watching as a pair of guards came around the wheel of the Gulfstream, responding to the threat. More than a little late. He squeezed the Colt’s trigger, a wild, hasty shot. The lights. Why were the lights still working?

  In return, automatic weapons fire filled the air around his head. The pair were armed with Kalashnikov assault rifles. Harry dropped to one knee behind the Volvo’s engine block, hitting the magazine release and slamming a fresh mag into the butt of the Colt.

  This wasn’t Hollywood—he was seriously outgunned and he knew it. Time to leave. The lights. He needed the distraction to get away.

  Sirens split the night, a pair of police cars speeding down the access road toward the hangar. The policía were off-limits to him. But not to the Libyans.

  He heard the death rattle of Kalashnikovs on full-automatic, saw the windshield of the lead police car explode into a thousand shards of glass.

  The car slid off the road and into the embankment. Apparently the Paraguayans had come prepared for an arrest, not a firefight.

  Fools. It was going to get them massacred. And he was responsible.

  The price of still having a conscience. In that moment, he made his decision, raising himself up over the hood of the Volvo.

  Only one of the Libyans was still in sight and he was reloading, having already emptied his Kalashnikov’s banana magazine. Less than five meters away. Close enough to see his face, the look of panic in his eyes.

  The Colt came up in both hands. Training taking over.

  The lights went out suddenly, darkness falling over them like a physical weight. He could have let it go, could have walked away.

  He squeezed the trigger a single time, the scream in the night confirming his hit.

  The pistol still held ready in his hands, Harry walked forward to where the Libyan lay dying, bleeding out on the asphalt.

  He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, twenty-two. A kid. Too young for this.

  Harry’s face hardened into a pitiless mask. It was the price of war. Nothing more, nothing less.

  It would take time for the policía to recover from their casualties—time for them to regroup and establish their perimeter.

  By that time, he would be long gone. Harry tucked the Colt back into its shoulder holster, zipping up his jacket over it. He set off across the airport runway, walking slowly away from the scene of the crime. Ten meters, and the darkness had swallowed him up.

  9:30 A.M. Eastern Time, One day later

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  “You might want to take a look at this, boss,” Carter announced, looking up at the entrance of the DCS.

  Kranemeyer took in the peculiarly satisfied smile on his analyst’s face and rounded the edge of the cubicle.

  CNN was streaming live on Carter’s terminal, with Breaking News scrolling along the bottom of the screen and a female announcer providing voiceover. “... of this mo
rning, we are reporting on the death of alleged French al-Qaeda leader Jean-Claude Manet, aka Ramzi bin Abdullah. According to Paraguayan authorities, bin Abdullah was killed just outside Ciudad del Este last night, following a brief firefight with the local police, who had attempted to arrest him. Here with us this morning to comment on the impact of the death of yet another senior al-Qaeda leader, I welcome Senator Joe Lieberman ...”

  “Are they really fools enough to believe that?”

  “The Paraguayans?” Kranemeyer smiled. “Not for a moment—but it’s a feather in their cap. And it suits our purposes to give them the credit. What’s the status of our field team?”

  “They made it out of the country safely, that’s all I have for you. From here on out, they’ll be off the grid until they re-enter the States.”

  12:09 P.M. Eastern Time, Seven days following NIGHTSHADE

  A playground

  Norfolk, Virginia

  It was a beautiful day, the chill bite of fall just beginning to enter the air. Harry turned off the Suburban’s engine, glancing out the tinted windows of the SUV toward the playground. He knew she’d be here. His eyes scanned the crowd, the children running to and fro—the mothers keeping an anxious watch.

  There. Blue jeans and a white windbreaker, sitting on a bench near the swings. A playful gust of wind toyed with her blonde hair, revealing the familiar profile. It was her.

  He grabbed his shades off the dashboard, pushing the door open with painful reluctance.

  The laughing shrieks of kindergartners filled the autumn air as he passed like a ghost through their midst, making his way toward the woman.

  This—this was America. He felt like a foreigner in his own land.

  The cool air bit at his naked cheek, an unwelcome reminder that he had shaved clean for the first time in two months.

  “It’s a beautiful day.” The woman looked up at his voice, the shadow of dread passing across her features.

  “Sammy.” Her voice caught. “Is he ...”

  “He’s just fine, Sherri,” he replied, knowing she couldn’t finish the question. He took his seat beside Han’s wife, leaning back against the hard wood of the bench.

  “When will he be home?” she asked, her voice still brittle. Life in the Teams had been hard, but the SEALs had nothing on Langley.

  Harry looked over into her eyes. “A couple days, three at the most. He wanted me to check in on you and the twins. Give you his love.”

  She laughed, wiping away a tear from the corner of her eye. “They’re fine—as you can see. They miss their dad, but I’m sure a visit from Uncle Harry will perk them right up.”

  He followed her glance, just in time to watch five-year-old Lee emerge feet first from a slide. “I forgot to bring them anything,” he said, a sheepish smile passing across his face.

  The five-year-old straightened, in that split-second staring directly across the playground at the two of them. Eyes filled with that innocence that only a child can know.

  A child. Swung high in the arms of his father ’neath airport lights. A child. Standing there on the tarmac, his thumb in his mouth.

  A child. Bent over his father’s corpse, his little hands bathed in blood, hot tears washing away that innocence forever. Paradise lost.

  Harry’s throat felt suddenly dry, as though he were trying to swallow and couldn’t. He turned to see Sherri looking at him strangely.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, putting a hand on his arm. “You’re so pale.”

  Focus. It wasn’t working. The adrenaline that had sustained him in Paraguay was gone now, remorse filling its place. He shook off her hand, uttering one final, enormous lie. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  He made it back to the Suburban in a daze, leaning back into the seat as he fought the urge to retch. To cleanse himself.

  Harry looked down at his hands, and it seemed to him as if they were covered with blood. It wasn’t murder, it was war, but it felt no different.

  And he knew. He would see that face again, in his dreams. The face of that little boy.

  He took a deep breath, fastening his seatbelt as he put the SUV in drive. Toward Langley. Back to work. It was war. And there was only one thing certain about this war. It was far from over.

  THE PEPPER TYRANT

  BY J. GREGORY SMITH

  Durango, Mexico

  Mike Turcott sat on the plain wood bench in the Tierra del Gato police station and waited for an audience with Chief Vargas. Usually Vargas made house calls to Mike’s farm for what amounted to “tribute” in the form of cash, cheese, or whatever else was in season.

  “Señor Turcott.”

  Mike stepped into Vargas’s office, a dirty, white-painted room with a simple desk and file cabinets. A few pictures adorned the walls. There were obligatory shots of the governor and the presidente. Mike focused on the portly man in front of him and took a seat.

  He wiped his damp palms on his jeans.

  “You know me and I have no wish to cause trouble, but Carlos has changed his petty harassment to another level.”

  “Carlos Tragafuegos?”

  Carlos the “Fire Eater.”

  “Who else?” Mike pinched the bridge of his nose in a vain effort to stem the headache that wormed into his skull. “You know he rarely misses a month to send his people around to issue his challenge.”

  Vargas nodded and sat back in his chair. His tan uniform shirt bore white salt stains under the armpits. “But you know there is no law against such challenges. Those who accept know his rules.”

  “Rules? The man’s a thug without the balls to run his own business. He does what he wants. And you know what has been happening when he wins the challenges.”

  “I hear things, but that is not proof.”

  “Damn it! You grew up in this town. I haven’t been here more than ten years and I care more about these people than you do. Didn’t you see José Ramírez yesterday? What they did to his face?” Mike knew he was getting out of line. This wasn’t what he’d planned, and the chunky cop sat straight in his chair.

  “Watch your tone, Señor. If you’re not careful, you will attract the wrong kind of attention.”

  Mike got the message, but he was fed up with threats right about now.

  He raised his palms in an effort to show conciliation. “I’m sorry, Senor Vargas, but you must understand. It isn’t the way the losers of the challenge are being beaten by Carlos’s men; now he’s coming after my family.”

  Vargas leaned forward and Mike felt a spark of hope. “Yes?”

  “My wife Carmen was stopped not once but twice by his men and they were quite clear. Then, my Rosa came home with a doll ’some man gave me’ when she was at school ...” Mike felt the rage build inside him.

  “Why would he care so much?”

  Mike took a deep breath. He knew his wife and daughter were in danger every minute now, and the effort to buy into Vargas playing dumb made him want to scream. “Chief Vargas, I’m not blind to the realities of how things work here. I try to keep to myself but I’ve seen and heard a great deal in the last ten years. I stay out of things that don’t concern me. But I know Carlos’s brother is a powerful man in Ciudad Juarez.” Mike thought “powerful” was a nice euphemism for narco-terrorist. “And apparently he wants to expand his business—or whatever his plans are, it appears his brother is interested in using my farm. That this is about the challenge is just a pretext.”

  “Perhaps. But why don’t you accept his challenge? You beat him before.”

  “If I could take back one mistake over the last decade, that would be it.”

  “Is that not where you got the money to buy your farm in the first place?”

  He had a point. “I would have found another way.”

  Now Vargas looked amused. “I have heard you met your wife, Carmen, after the first contest. You were, still are, something of a legend.”

  “I was a dumb kid with a strong stomach. Now I’m a family man and farmer. It’s enough.”

>   “Apparently not.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Sometimes it is about avoiding making the wrong enemies.”

  Mike needed to refocus the conversation. “Look. My wife and child are being threatened. This isn’t about his eating contest, but I think that has made it personal with him. Can’t we find a way to give him what he wants without me losing my family or my farm, or both?”

  Vargas smoothed his mustache. “Señor. I am sorry but our hands are tied.”

  “But Carlos is no friend of yours.” Mike tried to find the most diplomatic phrasing. The man represented his last hope.

  “Sí. But he has powerful allies.”

  Mike had heard the rumors that Carlos didn’t even bother bribing Vargas. The implied danger from his brother was sufficient.

  “So there’s nothing you can do?” Mike began thinking about how much cash he could raise and felt the growing dread that came with the realization that everything he owned was tied up in the farm.

  Vargas stared at him. “You believe the threats?”

  “Of course.”

  “Come back in the morning. I need to make a call.”

  Mike’s voice shook while he spoke. He hadn’t waited to be summoned, and he ignored the other officer sitting in Vargas’s office. “Rosa got a ride home from school yesterday.”

  “We are having a meeting, Mr. Turcott.” Vargas didn’t appear surprised to see Mike.

  “Listen to me, Vargas.” Mike looked over to the lanky man dressed in the paramilitary uniform he recognized was from the policía federale. “You, too. My ten-year-old daughter Rosa normally walks home from school with a couple friends. Yesterday, she got a ride from a stranger despite, what we tell her.” Mike made a fist to keep his fingers from trembling. “She said the car smelled like smoke and the man said, ‘tell your father Uncle Carlos says hola.’”

  The federale spoke first. “We have been discussing your situation. It sounds serious.”

  “You think?”

  “My name is Sanchez. I’m afraid due to—how do you gringos say it?— ‘circumstances beyond our control,’ there is little we can do. I promise if anything were to happen, we would open a thorough investigation.”