“It’s about time you got here. Everyone was wondering where you’ve been,” Emma admonished as she placed a gentle kiss against Tony’s cheek.
Tony held up a blue bag with rubber duckies on it. “I had to stop and get the little guy something.” They entered the kitchen, and Tony placed his gift on the table.
“You didn’t have to do that, Tony. Just you being there for my son should he need you is all I could ever ask,” Rob said, laying his hand on Tony’s shoulder and squeezing. It had come to mean love between the brothers, the shoulder squeeze.
“What smells so good?” Tony asked, smiling at Lola and Emma.
“Well, I’m sure it isn’t as good as yours, but it’ll have to do,” Emma said as she pulled the pot roast out of the oven. Tony was a fantastic cook. He had a gift, a natural talent. Some people could smell a dish and know exactly what seasoning to add. Others could taste a dish and know. Emma wasn’t so lucky. She tried her hardest, but she never lived up to Tony’s cooking.
Emma placed the roast on the serving platter, and Lola decorated it with the vegetables pulled from the bag. It wasn’t your traditional baptismal party, but something small with just the Unit was all they had wanted.
Baby Liam played in his walker. He hadn’t started walking yet, but he was close and knew exactly how to get attention. He rammed his walker into Tony’s leg over and over again until Tony reached down and picked up the big boy, holding him on his hip while dinner was served.
“Here, give him to me. You need to eat,” Lola said as she reached for her baby.
Tony handed him over and sat down to feast with his brothers and their wives. Glancing around the table, he once again found himself admiring what his friends had, knowing he’d never have the same thing; he’d missed his chance long ago. He hadn’t seen Jules in years. Taking a moment, he allowed himself to wonder where she was at that exact moment. Did she still think about him the way he thought about her? Did she still wear his dog tag?
Of course, he was being ridiculous. She had moved on with her life. It may have been life changing for him, but that didn’t mean it was the same for her. Regardless, she would always be his Jules. Shaking his head, he tried to rid himself of the thoughts of her silky skin sliding against his body and the feel of her soft, pliable lips pressed against his. He picked up his fork and dug into his meal. Maybe someday he would forget her and find a woman to share his life with, but someday seemed like it would never come.
“I needed those figures an hour ago. I go live in five minutes. I don’t care how, just get me them,” Jules demanded of the man standing before her. He was supposed to be her assistant, but he wasn’t good at his job. Gary rushed off, and when he returned holding a one-page document, Jules asked, “Is this it?”
“This is all I have. You’ll have to make do,” Gary confessed as he handed her the paper.
“These aren’t going to work, Gary; they’re from three years ago. They do, however, show Barone’s ties to the Azadi Terrorist Group. But how am I going to report on the investigation of the money-laundering business, which he does for himself as well as the ATG, if I don’t have current figures?” Jules demanded incredulously. “The ATG figure prominently in this story. If I can’t show the connection between Barone and Alahwadda himself, then this isn’t going to be a strong piece.” She reviewed the document more thoroughly. “Gary, look here,” Jules said surprised as she stood next to him pointing to a line on the document. “This in itself is enough to put Barone away for a very long time,” she mumbled to herself.
Jules had achieved her dream; she was an investigative reporter. It took her a few years to prove her worth, but she had worked her way up through the ranks after her undergraduate degree and then through her graduate degree in Journalism. She was now a full-fledged investigative reporter for a major national news organization, KMM.
Her cameraman indicated one minute until air. Jules would use the information she had already gathered, all of which she had proof of. Proof that directly linked Barone to Alahwadda. She couldn’t believe she never made the connection before now. That one piece of missing information was the key to everything and up until a few minutes ago, she didn’t even know it existed.
She checked the mirror. Her long, thick, dark hair was cooperating today. The natural wave it had made it look good even in the hot, humid air of Virginia. She brushed it back over her shoulders. The story was what was important, not how good she looked.
Stepping out of the van, she took her spot in front of the camera and reported what her investigation had found, concentrating on the link between Barone and Alahwadda. Sure, the men in the report may come after her for disclosing this information to the masses as well as to the police, but that was a chance she was willing to take. Poised and professional, she delivered her findings to the world.
Jules dug around in her purse, locating her keys at the bottom of her bag. She still lived in her brownstone outside Washington, D. C. She loved her place. As she unlocked the front door, she tried to ignore the feeling of being watched. Truth be told, she’d had an uneasy feeling for the last few days now. She wasn’t sure if it was associated with the danger of the money-laundering story or something more. Closing the door behind her, she locked the deadbolt and set the chain. A girl in her line of work couldn’t be too careful, but she was a girl who knew how to take care of herself.
Last year, when the source of one of her stories decided he needed to stalk her, she bought herself a Taser. One night, while out with her friends, the man cornered her next to her car. She pulled her Taser from her purse and tased him without a second thought. Within seconds of him hitting the ground, she was on the phone to report the incident and safely on her way to the police station to file a report. By the time the police arrived at the scene, the man was gone, but he never bothered her again. At least he never approached her again, and that was something she could live with.
Her job afforded her no shortage of enemies, but it was work she loved. She never felt like she was going to work, because she honestly loved getting to the bottom of a story. Some stories required more legwork than others, and she worked damn hard at what she did, always digging for more when others would call it good enough. It was never good enough for Jules. She had to have all the facts before she was satisfied. Every piece of information had to be fully vetted before she was ready to release her findings. A year and a half ago, she’d won the prestigious Mark of Excellence Award for a story on a corporation that polluted the rivers in Virginia. It was that story that landed her the job with KMM.
She made her way into her kitchen and opened the drawer beside her sink. After grabbing the corkscrew, she selected a bottle of Pinot Grigio from her refrigerator. She plunged the corkscrew into the cork and pulled hard. Pop. The wine gurgled as she poured it into the glass. Satisfied, she settled into the living room, plopping onto her sofa, putting her feet up on the coffee table, and turning on her network.
Halfway into her glass of wine, she realized it was the anniversary of Adam’s death—the death she was responsible for. She had always made it a point to call his father on this day to convey her deepest sympathy and regards. She had confessed to Mr. Martin that it was her doing that caused Adam’s death, but Stanley Martin III would never accept her admissions of guilt. Knowing the type of man his son had turned out to be, he held her completely blameless.
“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” he always said to her during their telephone conversations. Over the course of the last three years, she had come to know Stanley as a caring, generous man. Although he was an oil tycoon, he never let the wealth or status go to his head. He was as down to earth as she was, and he always made time to talk to her, no matter when she called.
She glanced at the clock on her cable box, seeing it was 6:00 p.m. He would be home. She grabbed her cell phone from the coffee table and dialed his number. A strange woman answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Julia Bakas
calling for Mr. Stanley Martin.”
“How do you know Stanley?” the woman inquired.
“I was a friend of his son.”
“Well, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but no one has seen Stanley in two weeks, and no one has heard from him. We fear the worst,” she admitted, a sob escaping her lips.
Jules knew that Stanley Martin III had remarried for the fourth time. “Is this Mrs. Martin?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you hear from him, please have him call me,” Jules stated calmly, but she wasn’t sure the woman heard her as she was sobbing into the telephone. Not sure what else to do, Julia whispered, “Goodbye,” and ended the call.
As soon as she hung up with the woman, Jules started making phone calls. She called every source that would possibly know the whereabouts of Mr. Martin, starting with another bigtime player in the oil industry who had helped her with her Barone/Alahwadda story. She may not have been able to rescue Adam from his death, but she would track down the whereabouts of his father if it was the last thing she did. She owed him that much.
Tony, Steve, Michael, and Rob were on a hostage rescue mission. It seemed they were always on some sort of hostage retrieval mission these days. The terrorists were always looking for ransom, so they would kidnap the largest fish they could find in the pond. This time that fish happened to be Stanley Martin III. “It’s a good thing he was microchipped as part of his insurance policy,” Tony said.
“Yeah, makes our job a lot easier,” Michael responded.
His microchip indicated he was stationary at a location in Sinjar, Iraq. Getting into Iraq would be the easy part. Traveling through Iraq, not so easy.
“This is your captain speaking,” Steve said over the intercom. “We have begun our descent. Please return to your seats, fasten your seat belts, and smoke ’em if you got ’em.” The men in the main cabin chuckled.
Twenty minutes later, the plane touched down outside Diyarbakir, Turkey. They would have a five-hour drive to the border town of Silopi. From Silopi, they would cross into Iraq. Blackrain Security, the firm the men worked for, had access to a CIA safe house in Mosul, Iraq.
The men stood and stretched their legs before grabbing their bags from the overhead compartments. Tony reached for his sidearm, his Sig P226, to make sure it was still safely fastened in its holster. They didn’t have their normal arsenal of weapons; instead, they would have to acquire what they needed once inside Iraq.
“Have you been able to get hold of Mussa?” Tony asked Michael.
“Yeah. He’s secured a border control guard for us for one thousand American. He got a man named Kerem, whom he trusts, to drive the truck. He’s set to meet us at the market in Silopi.”
“Can he get us what we need?”
“He can, but it’s a damn good thing we came prepared with three hundred thousand in cash. We’re going to need every penny to bribe and buy our way through this mission,” Michael responded, walking behind Tony down the stairs of the plane. Once their feet touched the ground, the men located the waiting SUV. Tony rounded the driver’s side and climbed into the vehicle.
“This insurance company really does not want to pay out on Martin,” Steve commented. “They spared no expense.”
“Can you believe this thing will withstand rocket fire and chemical attacks? It was modeled after the presidential limo,” Steve informed his brothers.
“I feel safer just knowing that,” Tony boasted as he patted Michael, who sat in the passenger’s seat, on the shoulder.
Looking out the front window, Tony saw little boys playing soccer in the streets and little girls sitting at their mothers’ sides playing with baby dolls. Tony maneuvered through the streets of the small town, eventually coming upon the exit ramp. Turning the vehicle slightly right, he merged onto the D955 highway, which would take them all the way to the border town of Silopi.
After a few stops and five-and-a-half hours later, they pulled into the Grand Hotel’s valet parking in Silopi. The men grabbed their gear from the back of the SUV. After grabbing his gear from the trunk, Tony tossed the keys to the valet. “Take good care of it.” When he slipped an American ten-dollar bill to the man, the valet’s eyes gleamed brightly in the midday sun, making Tony smile.
“Gentlemen, I don’t believe we have ever had it so good,” Tony said as he admired the façade of the Grand Hotel. Imperial doors made of bulletproof glass encased in carved wood adorned the entrance. The men couldn’t help but marvel at the opulence. For a war-torn country, rife with terrorism, the Grand Hotel boasted a water fountain in the middle of the foyer. Tony approached the rich mahogany desk, and was greeted with a friendly smile.
“Smith,” he said to the lady; it was the name Blackrain Security had used to garner the rooms. After punching a few keys on her computer, she looked up with a knowing smile and gave the muscle-clad men dressed in T-shirts and jeans a thorough once-over. “She knows who we are, or at the very least, she knows we work security,” Tony whispered into Michael’s ear.
Michael’s eyes immediately shot to the woman standing before him. She grinned at him and handed Tony three sets of cards one for each pair of them. She unnecessarily explained the layout of the hotel to the men and directions to their rooms. Little did she know, the men probably knew this hotel better than she did. They had studied the blueprints gained by the CIA for hours in preparation for this trip.
In case something went wrong, they needed to know every square inch and all possible escape routes. The Grand Hotel had a five-star restaurant on its premises, and the men knew their quickest escape route would be through its kitchen and out the back door. The only problem was, that was what people would expect. So, the team had to come up with the unexpected.
“Who’s up for a fine dinner tonight?” Michael asked as they made their way into the elevator, where they were greeted with a light, classical tune.
“I am. I’m famished,” Steve complained.
“Yeah, I could definitely eat, but I want something that will stick to my ribs. Do you think we can find that in this restaurant?” Michael asked, staring ahead at the elevator doors as they ascended to the fifth floor.
“I don’t think so. We’ll probably have to hit the streets to find something of substance,” Steve said as he pressed 5 on the elevator panel.
“Let’s stick close to home tonight. I don’t want to risk calling any more attention to ourselves,” Michael said as they exited the elevator.
“All right, I want to shower first. How about we meet in the lobby in half an hour?” Tony asked, standing in front of room five seventeen.
Reaching into his shirt pocket, he retrieved the keycard before placing it into the door’s slot. The green light buzzed, and he pushed the door open, not waiting for an answer. Rob followed close on his heels.
“You want to go first?” Tony asked Rob, placing his gear bag on the first bed, claiming it as his own.
Rob walked to the bed closest to the window and dropped his gear bag on the floor before peeking out of the sheers that lined the windows. “Sure,” he said, returning to his bag and pulling out a clean T-shirt.
Half an hour later, the men were gathered in the lobby, clean and refreshed from their day of travel. They hit the streets of the town of Silopi looking for a restaurant close to the hotel. The town looked like a poorer version of a small American city. There weren’t many tall buildings; however, there were food vendors and restaurants lining the city streets, where food hung in windows of the ground floor of buildings.
About three blocks from the hotel, they came across a chicken hanging in a restaurant window. It looked safe enough as families sat at outdoor tables and dined. The men were dressed casually, but were several inches taller than most of the men in Turkey. Plus, their Caucasian complexion stood out amongst the brown skin tones of the locals. Tony was closest in color with his natural olive skin tone because of his Italian ancestry.
Shortly after taking a seat at a large outside ta
ble, a beautiful Turkish woman came to take their order. Speaking Kurdish, she asked what they would like to drink. Each of them ordered a Turkish beer to accompany their food.
After their meal had come, Tony noticed a group of men enter a restaurant across the street. His gut gnawed at him. Glancing at the others, he asked, “Did you see those men?”
“I saw them,” Rob assured him as he placed his napkin on the table.
Tony felt calmer as he leaned back so the gun hiding under his shirt pressed into his back, reassuring him of its presence.
“We aren’t here for them,” Michael said, knowing how the men loathed terrorists and wanted to take them down every chance they got. “This mission requires several more stops yet. Let’s not get antsy.”
Tony settled back into his chair and finished his meal, but kept a close eye on the restaurant opposite. When the check came, he quickly grabbed the billfold and threw the money on the table. “Let’s get out of here before we jeopardize the mission with our own personal agendas.”
At 0600 hours the next morning, the men loaded into the back of a cloth-tarp covered pickup truck. The man Mussa sent to Turkey to drive them across the Iraqi border was named Kerem, which ironically meant one who does benevolent work. Kerem’s benevolent work cost the men five grand, but they needed him.
“We’re approaching the border. Let’s hope Mussa came through for us,” Michael said as the vehicle start to slow down.
“For what we’re paying him, he better have, or I’ll take it out of his hide,” Tony vowed. He didn’t trust Mussa. Call it a gut instinct, but he never trusted that motherfucker, even when he helped them escape the last time they were in Iraq. “You know he’s going to turn on us the first chance he gets,” Tony commented as he removed his Sig from his waistband, preparing for a shootout.
“He’ll be loyal. We’re paying him handsomely for his loyalty,” Rob reassured Tony as he too removed his gun from the waistband of his pants.
Harder (The Unit #3) Page 3
