Scorpion: A Covert Ops Novel (Second Edition)

by Ross Sidor

  A variety of languages registered in Avery’s ears. The place was almost a chaotic sensory overload, and upon first entering the market, it had taken him several minutes to get his bearings.

  There was a moderate police presence, too. Recently, local hooligans had taken to setting the bazaars on fire. Avery kept conscious of the cops as his eyes scanned the sea of faces. It would be nearly impossible to try to keep track of someone in here. While this worked both ways, Avery had more faith in Sideshow’s combined skills than he did in that of Dagar’s thugs.

  Barakat wasn’t the exotic Middle Eastern-style marketplace most tourists probably envisioned. Western food, clothing, computer games, and VHS tapes were readily available and highly sought after by the locals. Avery wasn’t surprised to pass a vendor serving pizza, French fries, and Pepsi. It looked and smelled as good as anything back home.

  Avery’s pace came to a grinding halt when he came to a large group of people clustered around an art exhibit and street performers, including jugglers. No one paid attention to the big American as he squeezed his way through the crowd.

  Reaper and Mockingbird were on target, too, and had been for the past two hours. Avery had passed Reaper coming into the bazaar, but the two men had not even glanced at each other and to an outside observer they would have seemed to not even notice or recognize one another.

  Flounder was also nearby, in the team’s Lada, parked a block outside the market from where he had a good vantage point of the sidewalk cafés and restaurants outside the bazaar, as well as anyone entering or leaving the square from this end. Everyone was wired with concealed Motorola radios and mikes.

  Avery finally emerged from the opposite end of the bazaar from which he’d entered. The herds of people grew thinner here. He sat down at a tiny, circular sidewalk table outside of a Turkish restaurant. He’d selected the table deliberately and positioned himself in such a way that offered a wide vantage point of the street and sidewalks in either direction. A waiter quickly appeared with tea and a menu.

  As he leisurely sipped his tea and pretended to peruse the menu, Avery scanned the passing pedestrians and vehicles from behind reflective mirror sunglasses. He almost wished that he did have time to eat, because the kabob sounded tempting and inhaling the aromas coming from the grill stimulated his appetite.

  Dagar soon appeared, emerging from the bazaar, some seventy feet away. Despite the sea of faces, the Tajik registered immediately on Avery’s radar, and Avery instantly forgot about food.

  Avery tilted his head and spoke into his throat mike, identifying Dagar to the Sideshow operators by the tan jacket and pakol hat the little Tajik wore and giving them his current position. Surveillance teams always recognized and tracked a target by articles of clothing—usually shoes, since a professionally trained subject would dress in layers that could be easily discarded and replaced, but shoes weren’t so easily switched.

  Problem was there were so many people packed in here that it’d be pretty difficult to stay on anyone.

  Reaper responded first, ten seconds later, saying that he had eyes on target.

  Flounder chimed in seven seconds later, indicating he’d spotted Dagar, too. Then so did Mockingbird. Now that they’d identified Dagar, the Sideshow crew could sweep the market and look out for where his potential backup would be positioned. This is what Reaper and Flounder did, while Mockingbird kept his eyes on Dagar.

  Mockingbird circled around on foot and made a pass, coming within four feet of Dagar, and spotted the bulge beneath the Tajik’s jacket on his left side. He reported to Avery that the target was armed.

  Avery took note of this. He hadn’t expected Dagar to show. He anticipated that at this point Dagar would have some suspicions that his cover was blown, especially if he was in contact with either Cramer or the Russians. The fact that Dagar did show could only mean a trap. After all, the Tajik hadn’t been armed at Port Said or when they travelled to Gorno-Badakhshan, but now he was packing a gun to see Avery.

  That’s why Avery had Poacher’s crew on target. Dagar could have a kill team hidden nearby or amongst the shoppers, watching and waiting, doing the same thing Sideshow was doing.

  This wasn’t the place for a confrontation. There were too many civilians present. The plan was to lure Dagar away from the bazaar, to somewhere quiet and isolated. If Dagar did have backup, then he’d almost certainly have the same idea and try to lure Avery onto his intended killing ground, but Avery wasn’t going to let Dagar take control.

  Dagar was within several yards of the Turkish restaurant. He didn’t even see Avery until the American abruptly stood up from his chair. Then he caught sight of him and started walking in Avery’s direction.

  Avery never looked at Dagar or made eye contact. He reached for his wallet in his hip pocket, where it was easy to feel and remain consciously aware of. Pickpockets and thieves weren’t uncommon here. Plus, a professional spook could grab a subject’s wallet, check his ID, and replace it without the target even knowing.

  Avery left a couple American dollars on the table, placing the bills partially underneath his cup to hold them down against the breeze. By the time he replaced the wallet in his pocket, Dagar had reached his table, and Avery instantly turned and started walking, falling into stride with Dagar, by his side.

  Dagar opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.

  “Come with me,” Avery instructed the Tajik, pushing him along. He led Dagar back through the bazaar from which he’d just come.

  Along the way, unknown to Avery, they passed the IMU point men. Avery’s eyes passed over one of them, but his mind didn’t register him or make any note of him. Even Dagar missed him, and he had spoken with the IMU lieutenant only an hour earlier.

  There were three of them, and they’d been sent in advance of Avery’s arrival. Mostly through luck and good timing—right place, right time—one even had been on hand to make note of the Lada Avery arrived in. The IMU cell had Avery within their stakeout box the entire time. And Avery was by no means a soft target, which spoke volumes of their tradecraft and skills. The only good news was that they hadn’t been able to identify any of the Sideshow team.

  These IMU operatives were specially trained in surveillance and field craft by a former KGB pavement artist, as those who specialized in conducting outdoor surveillance on foot were known in the trade. This IMU cell was utilized to scout out targets and locations in advance of terrorist attacks and assassinations.

  Flounder and Reaper missed them because they were only two sets of eyes covering a huge crowd and had little time to prepare in advance. The market was an unfamiliar setting for them. Plus, most important, the IMU team knew how to blend in and appear inconspicuous and hadn’t gone anywhere near Dagar or come into contact with or acknowledged him in any way. As far as Reaper and Mockingbird were concerned, the IMU surveillance operatives were simply more local shoppers or tourists.

  It helped that they didn’t look like the typical Islamic insurgents. They’d shaved their beards, gotten haircuts, and wore jeans and short sleeve shirts, or local chapan robes with tupi skullcaps, and blended in easily among the mid-afternoon crowd of the marketplace, going from shops and tables and pretending to examine trinkets and widgets and haggle with the shopkeepers and merchants. One of them leisurely snacked on an apple he’d bought from a fruit vendor, and another carried a stuffed shopping bag. They were each of medium height and build, with relaxed expressions and unassuming eyes.

  “Did you bring the Uzbek back from Yazgulam?” Avery asked and turned his head to appraise Dagar for the first time.

  Dagar hesitated before responding, still trying to make sense of Avery’s abrupt behavior. It was clear to him that Avery knew something. “Regrettably, he died in Gurgakov’s custody, from infection to his wounds. Shortly after you left, he grew very sick and did not recover.”

  “That’s too bad.” Avery knew Dagar lied. It was how he’d said it and the look in his eye that betrayed him. Before answering, his eyes h
ad shifted quickly down and to the left, while his chest rose with the intake of a deep breath, a tic common when someone tells a lie. Trained intelligence officers, cops, and interrogators knew to look out for signs like that and other micro fluctuations in the face, demeanor, voice inflection, and body language.

  As they walked, Avery considered the possibilities. Either Dagar had simply kept the cash for himself and left the prisoner with Gurgakov or he’d taken the Uzbek and executed him somewhere between Gorno-Badakhshan and Dushanbe, or delivered him to the IMU or the Russians. He thought that Dagar intended to have him meet with a similar fate this afternoon.

  “May I ask where we are going?” the Tajik asked.

  Avery took wide, purposeful strides, but stayed at Dagar’s side, his left shoulder and arm behind him, nudging him along, and the much shorter Tajik struggled to keep up, while avoiding bumping into people.

  “Someplace safe,” Avery said. “My cover may be blown.”

  Dagar didn’t say anything to that. He allowed Avery to lead the way out of the bazaar and onto the quiet, residential side streets. He resisted the urge to turn around and look back for his IMU backup. He hoped that they were nearby and prepared to intervene.

  After two blocks, Avery heard Reaper’s voice in his ear, warning him that they were likely being followed. The Sideshow operators could spot the IMU watchers now that they were clear of the bazaar. Avery said nothing and didn’t react to the news. He thought that by this time Reaper would have likewise signaled Poacher, who was standing by in his own vehicle, a Datsun, waiting to tail Avery and Dagar.

  Four blocks later, Avery and Dagar reached the Lada and got in. Avery locked the doors, keyed the ignition, put the car into gear, and accelerated down the street. He took a couple unnecessary turns along the way, to give the IMU an opportunity to reveal themselves to the Sideshow team.

  They drove in silence for several minutes before Dagar asked, “Why not go to your embassy?”

  “The embassy’s not safe either.”

  “Will you leave the country?”

  “No, my job here isn’t finished yet.”

  “I see.” Dagar tried to sound thoughtful. “So you did not find anything in Yazgulam?”

  Avery merged onto the A384 highway going south. In his rearview mirror, he spotted a van slipping into traffic behind him, with another car in between them. He hadn’t caught sight of Poacher’s Datsun yet, but knew he was back there somewhere. “Not exactly. Cramer’s dead, but I’m still going to find those responsible.”

  “Oh,” was all Dagar said. He’d heard what he needed to know and decided to give up on the friendly interrogation.

  As he drove, Avery heard the rustling and zipper of Dagar’s jacket and became aware of movement through his right peripheral, Dagar’s hand coming up with something black. When Avery turned his head, he was staring down the barrel of a CZ-999, the Serbian version of the SIG Sauer P226. Behind the pistol, Dagar’s face was sweating rivulets.

  Avery looked ahead and returned his focus to his driving. He kept both hands firmly on the wheel and remained relaxed, but internally there was the onset of panic. Although he’d anticipated something like this and knew he was still in control of the situation, having a gun pointed at your face was always a disconcerting experience. Avery’s Glock was holstered at his side, beneath his windbreaker, but there was no chance of reaching it.

  He’d considered disarming Dagar earlier, but he hadn’t wanted to play his hand too soon. He also hadn’t expected the Tajik to do something as amateurish as this. He was edgy and being impulsive, not thinking his actions through. In many respects, this was even more worrying than a calm, collected professional.

  The van was now right behind them and close, Avery noted.

  “Get off at the next exit,” Dagar commanded.

  The turn approached.

  Half a mile, a thousand feet, three hundred feet, then they passed it.

  “What are you doing?” the Tajik shouted.

  “Take a deep breath and relax, Dagar,” Avery said. “We’re doing fifty-five. Pull that trigger, you’ll waste me, but my foot is on the gas and I’ve got the wheel. What the hell do you think will happen to you? This piece of shit doesn’t have airbags.”

  Dagar considered this and accepted the logic. He regained his composure. “Slow down, please, and pull over to the side of the highway.”

  In response, Avery pressed the gas a little harder and picked up speed as he steered the car out of the lane, overtaking another vehicle, and moved over to the shoulder. Horns blared behind him. Before Dagar could protest or make any threats, Avery abruptly applied pressure to the brakes and threw the Lada into a fast and hard full stop.

  Dagar jolted forward. He didn’t wear a seatbelt, and his ass lifted off the seat as he was propelled forward against the dashboard. He lost hold of the CZ-999 when his head smacked against the windshield, his forehead putting a crack in the glass. The pistol fluttered out of his fingers and went across the top of the dash.

  Behind them, the brakes on the pursuing van screeched as the driver pulled over, halfway off the lane onto the shoulder, no more than twenty feet behind the Lada. Three more cars veered around the stopped vehicles, horns blaring, and continued down the highway, making way for Poacher’s Datsun.

  The ex-Delta NCO saw the stopped vehicles ahead. Not knowing what was going on, he braked hard and stopped ten feet behind the van and reached for the SOCOM pistol resting on the passenger seat, while keying his mike to ask Avery for a SitRep. He received no response.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, Avery was aware of this activity and the positions of the other players. Beside him, Dagar, dazed, bled from his forehead and broken nose. Then his eyes lifted and locked onto the CZ-999 on the dash.

  Avery followed Dagar’s line of sight to the gun and saw the Tajik’s hand shoot out. Avery reached past Dagar and swept the pistol off the dashboard. He pulled back the slide to eject the chambered bullet and pressed the magazine release. Then, adjusting his grip so that he held the pistol by the barrel, he raised it in the air and hammered the butt against Dagar’s head, once, twice, three times. Dagar groaned and slumped forward.

  Drawing his Glock from beneath his jacket, Avery opened his door, got out of the car, and hurled the CZ-999 off the side of the highway. He spun around on his heels and raised the Glock, holding it two-handed in the weaver stance, pointing it at the van.

  Doors on each side of the van were already open, and the three occupants stormed out. They carried AKS-74Us—the compact 7.62mm carbine version the AKM; essentially a cross between an assault rifle and a submachine gun. The two men who had been in the back of the van turned at once around to cover the tailing Datsun, where Poacher had just sprung up from behind the open driver side door, while the van’s driver set his sights on Avery.

  Avery’s reaction time was faster.

  The IMU driver barely got the AK to his shoulder before Avery sighted his Glock, aligning the white dot between the aiming aperture and over his target. His finger broke the trigger with three and a half pounds of pressure. Instantly, recovering from the recoil, he reacquired his aim and fired again.

  Both shots struck the IMU in the chest. The Uzbek’s body jerked, and he sluggishly took another step forward. His arms sagged with the AK carbine, as if it suddenly weighed a ton, and he staggered back a couple steps. Avery’s third shot took the Uzbek straight through the face and dropped him.

  Sixteen feet away, before Avery fired his kill shot, another IMU directed a stream of fire across the hood and through the windshield of Poacher’s Datsun. Poacher, positioned behind the open driver’s door, got off a couple rounds from his Mk 23 SOCOM pistol. The Uzbek took the hit below his ribs. He stayed on his feet, but he fell back for cover.

  Hollywood movies aside, cars are easily perforated by bullets and made for terrible cover. Doubled over and keeping his head low, both hands on the SOCOM pistol, Poacher maneuvered back toward the rear of the car, AK fire follo
wing him.

  With the Glock angled toward the ground in front of him, Avery advanced along the shoulder of the highway, the van coming up on his left as he closed the gap toward the Datsun.

  The van obscured his view, and now he didn’t have eyes on either of the IMU pair, but he heard the familiar crack of AK fire and the return of an unsuppressed SOCOM pistol and two voices calling out in frantic Uzbek.

  Avery took wide deliberate steps, covering as much ground as he could with each step, while scanning and maintaining situational awareness. He swept his eyes over the interior of the van, through the windshield and open door, as he passed it. It was empty.

  As he stepped up alongside the van toward its rear, offering him a view of the Datsun now, Avery heard a new burst of AK fire.

  Seven feet away, the pair of IMU presented their backs to him. They approached the Datsun from either side, their AK-74Us shouldered and pointed toward the rear of the car, ready for Poacher to pop up and present a target when he tried to come up to get another shot off. Avery put three rounds between the right-side Uzbek’s shoulder blades. The man grunted and fell over.

  The remaining IMU immediately snapped around before his partner even hit the ground, his AK-74U held in the ready position, his eyes on Avery. Avery snapped off a quick shot—too far to the left—and retreated back alongside the side of the van as the IMU sent a stream of 5.56mm in his direction.

  Poacher saw his opening. He broke cover and drilled the IMU through the side of his chest and arm with multiple .45 hollow points. The Uzbek still clung to his rifle as he went down, his right arm now disabled and dangling uselessly at his side. He dropped onto one knee and then fell over onto his side, moaning and breathing hard. Avery stepped out from his cover and put a round through the Uzbek’s head to finish him off.

  Not sure how many men the van had carried, Avery kept moving, stepping over the dead body and kicking the rifle away from its hands, and moved cautiously around to the other side of the van and stopped his search for more targets after Poacher shouted “clear” and announced that only three tangos had gotten out of the van.