NIGHTSHADE: A Shadow Warriors Short Story

by Stephen England

authority. They have to know we’re here.”

  “Wait one, EAGLE SIX.” There was no time. Harry moved to the apartment’s dresser, wedging his fingers around the bowed wood, jerking the drawer outward. A small leather attache case lay inside and he pulled it out, dumping the contents onto the bed. Three envelopes. “Clean passports, Belgian. The entry/exit stamps will be verified by our people if you’re questioned. Standard E&E protocols apply.” Escape and evade. Last resort.

  “Sammy?” The former SEAL looked up from his envelope, his features calm, unruffled.

  “Land. Take the Ponte da Amizada across the border to Brazil.” The Bridge of Friendship. In the Tri-Border Area, the name seemed more ironic than anything.

  Hamid had already disposed of the envelope, shoving the passport into his back pocket. “Sea,” he said without being asked. “Go to ground until daylight, then take the ferry across the Rio Igacu to Argentina.”

  That left him, and he knew without looking. Air, Guarani Airport. He’d fly to Sao Paulo, then catch a flight for the Caymans. No trail.

  Han placed a hand on his arm as they moved toward the door. “If anything goes wrong…”

  He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t have to. The SEAL was the only married man on the team. Married, with twins.

  “You know it,” Harry replied, meeting his friend’s eyes. “Sherri and the boys—they’ll be okay.”

  Police sirens sounded in the distance, confirming his worst fears. They’d been set up.

  “Don’t stay together, whatever you do,” he admonished, tucking his Colt into the inside of his jacket. “And remember—the cops may be dirty—they’re also off-limits. Let’s roll…”

  8:48 P.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Two months. Two months and three days to be exact. He’d been detached to the Clandestine Service for the duration of NIGHTSHADE. In reality, the fun was only starting—the fun of figuring out what had gone wrong. It seemed disturbingly anti-climactic, Ron thought, leaning back in his office chair.

  “Nothing like the movies, is it?” He looked up to find Kranemeyer standing behind him, staring at the LCD display of his workstation.

  He shook his head. “Has the President been told yet?”

  “That’s happening now—has the money been moved?”

  “That’s a negative,” Carter replied, bringing up an active window. “There you go. All the trackers are on-line and stationary.”

  “Any chance that Abdullah will be able to detect or disable them?”

  The analyst shrugged. “Not according to the boys at S&T,” he said, referencing the Agency’s directorate of Science & Technology. “The trackers cost almost as much as the cash they’re supposed to keep tabs on.”

  That got a snort from Kranemeyer. “They were meant for the short-term—Abdullah’s going to get them banked and electronic before too much water goes under the bridge. Kiss the bills good-bye.”

  “Another five mil in the al-Qaeda war chest, courtesy of the American taxpayer. Of course, any one of our senators on the Hill would see that as a rounding error.” Carter was feeling sarcastic, and it showed.

  There was silence between the two men for several minutes, then Kranemeyer cleared his throat. “I know it’s tempting, Ron, but never allow yourself to second-guess the man in the field. Leaving three bodies on Paraguayan soil wouldn’t have accomplished squat.”

  At that moment, Kranemeyer’s phone rang with the familiar sound of Jon bon Jovi’s Wanted Dead or Alive, and he stepped away, leaving Carter lost in thought.

  Movement on the screen caught his eye and he focused his attention on the trackers. They were moving. He pulled up the streaming feed from the KH-13 on his second monitor, focusing in on the doorway of the apartment.

  It was the Libyans, the two heavies from before plus three more. Each of them carrying one of the briefcases. Weapons drawn as they moved out into the street.

  Then, behind them. It looked like a woman, the traditional hijab draped over her head and shoulders. Carter tapped a command into his keyboard and the resolution cleared up. Two little boys clung to her hands as they followed the armed men toward one of the parked vehicles.

  No question about it. Ramzi bin Abdullah’s wife Noori was known to them as well. And their sons.

  The sight was strangely unnerving—to see the family of the man they’d been tasked with killing.

  And they were on the move.

  Kranemeyer swept back into the cubicle without so much as a greeting, grabbing up a communications headset off the desk. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve been overruled,” the DCS announced, his face tense and drawn. “NIGHTSHADE is to proceed at ‘all costs’.”

  Carter shook his head. “Who gave that order?”

  “The President himself.” Kranemeyer sighed. “Not that the man has any clue what ‘all costs’ means. Probably got it out of some stupid movie. Get me a line to Nichols.”

  8:07 P.M. Local Time

  Westbound on Route 7

  Paraguay

  The Nissan was at least ten years old, more proof that the CIA had been neglecting its South American operations for far too long. Harry glanced carefully in the rear-view mirror of the Agency vehicle, checking for a tail. Nothing.

  He shook his head in disbelief, knowing he was going to have to come up with an answer. Sooner rather than later. He took a deep breath and keyed his headset mike.

  “Seems like I remember a day when there was a gentleman’s agreement with the White House about not micromanaging field ops.”

  “Different administration, Nichols.” Kranemeyer sounded tired, even from four thousand miles away. World weary. “The times they are a-changing. We’ve located a Saudi-flagged Gulfstream IV on the tarmac at Guarani. Got a flight plan filed for the Windward Islands. Odds on, HARROW’s family is headed to meet him there before leaving the country.”

  “What do you want me to do?” It was perfectly obvious, but protocol demanded that he hear the order. No misunderstandings.

  “Collect your team. We’ll do everything we can from here to keep that Gulfstream on the ground until you can mobilize.” There was no indecision in Kranemeyer’s voice. Just a cold, calculating certainty. “Once you’re in position, eliminate HARROW.”

  HARROW. It didn’t even sound like a man’s name. De-humanize your target. That was always the first rule. Made it easier to carry out the mission.

  “It’ll need to be close in, there won’t be time to set up a long-range shot—if they were tipped off, they’ll be expecting a team—protocol, not a single man.” Harry paused, as if weighing his decision. “I’ll do this myself, Han and Zakiri will have enough to do getting out of the country. Have Carter send everything to my phone. I’ll need satellite imagery of the Gulfstream and the surrounding area, security arrangements. The works.”

  There was a long moment before Kranemeyer responded. “We’ll do this your way. Just remember—don’t get caught.”

  That went without saying. It was always the way: if he succeeded, no one would ever know. If he failed, no one was coming for him. No glory in this. He closed the phone without saying good-bye.

  8:23 P.M.

  Guarani International Airport

  Ciudad del Este was one place where the Golden Rule was still firmly in effect: if you have the gold, you make the rules.

  It had been Carter’s advice. Go straight in, through the front gate. It saved time, if not money.

  Fifteen hundred dollars had gotten him through the security fence, around the metal detector and the scanners. Bribery was a way of life on the triple border. From the look in his eyes, it hadn’t been the first bribe that guard had accepted. But it might be the last.

  There was a Fokker 1000 bearing the logo of Sol de Paraguay taxiing on the runway as Harry strode through the concourse. Probably the biggest plane that could land—Guarani wasn’t more than a mid-sized airport. Most any other part of
the world, it wouldn’t have even been dignified with the international designation.

  “What’s my sitrep?” he asked, turning on his headset. The advent of Bluetooth had made the life of an intelligence officer so much easier. People with electronics attached to their ear no longer raised eyebrows. Or invited questions.

  “ETA on HARROW’s family is five minutes,” Carter replied. “Everything is in readiness for your departure. Once HARROW has been eliminated, give me the code Firefly. I’ll release the virus.”

  Harry often wondered if Carter had been a hacker in a previous life. Either way, the Agency was in place to release a computer virus into the Ciudad del Este power grid, focusing on a substation three miles to the south of Guarani. Within ninety seconds of the go-code, the sector would be plunged into darkness.

  We own the night. “Be advised, the satellite window closes in fifteen. We’ll no longer be able to provide real-time updates when that happens.”

  “Fine.” He’d worked without them before. He could do so again. Three storage containers were lined up near the security fence, a Komatsu forklift parked beside them.

  Harry knelt down beside the rear wheel of the forklift, pulling his back-up weapon from its holster. A Kahr PM9, the subcompact semiautomatic was chambered in 9mm Luger. Six shots. Better not be getting into any firefights.

  He tucked the pistol back into the left pocket of his jeans after a moment’s thought, opting to leave it where it was. It was going to be awkward, a weak-hand draw, but he was counting on surprise. It would be his