by Ethan Jones
Before Chan could reply, Winston said, “Pierce and Aquarone are correctors. They’re expected to fly under the radar, go in, fix things, come out without leaving a trace. This operation—”
The prime minister waved a dismissive hand. “This has a ‘corrective’ element to it. They’ll be correcting this gigantic screw-up that gave a free pass to these murderous terrorists. Plus, they’d be assisting the CIA, which in a sense is also a corrective operation. The CIA has identified a few of the most prominent IS leaders in Iraq, and they need a hand in dealing with them.”
Since Chan had yet to say a word, Tremblay glanced at him. “What do you say, Director Chan?”
“Depending on the exact nature of the operation, sir, this could be Javin’s and Claudia’s opportunity to redeem themselves, after the Riyadh, Baghdad, and Geneva disasters.” He shrugged. “Or it could lead to their deaths.”
“But they’ve carried out such tasks before; that’s clear from their files.” Tremblay tapped the other folder, which contained detailed operational files on Javin and Claudia.
“They have, yes, but this isn’t—”
“With a bit of preparation and some good will, they can get this done, right?”
Chan hesitated to give an immediate reply. Tremblay was making the proposed operation deep into the heart of lawless Iraq sound like a training session. “It will take more than prep and a lot of luck, but—”
“Well, then it’s done.” Tremblay closed the folder. “If they want their jobs back with the CIS, this is their way to earn them.”
Chan glanced at Winston, who offered a shrug. Then he said, “The prime minister is right. Javin and Claudia have to pay their dues. Again.”
Chan thought about it for a long moment. Then, with a great amount of reluctance, he nodded. “I’m certain they’ll accept the assignment, sir. And they’ll accomplish this nearly impossible mission.”
Epilogue
Ten days later
Somewhere over the northeast of Mosul, Iraq
Javin held on to the side of the seat mounted along the wall of the Mi-17 Russian-made helicopter. The pilot had just banked to the right, and one of the bolts of the rickety seat seemed to have given way. Javin ran his hand along the C8SFW carbine resting on his lap, then glanced at Claudia sitting next to him. Before he could speak, the pilot’s voice came over their communication headsets. “ETA to RV: five minutes.”
Javin and Claudia were meeting up with the CIA’s Special Activities Division, or SAD, team at the rendezvous point ten miles north of Mosul. The eight-man-strong team had identified the hideout of a group of IS leaders in the village of Saniyah. The SAD’s initial attempt to capture the fighters had resulted in an American casualty. The plan had been reduced to the bare necessity: kill all IS fighters.
The two Canadian operatives were arriving aboard an Iraqi Army helicopter. Intelligence had confirmed that at least one senior Iraqi Army official had facilitated the safe passage of the IS contingent from Syria to Mosul. Even if IS militants or their supporters in the area were on the lookout for the helicopter—which was unlikely considering the ungodly hour of the night—they would be reluctant to fire at a helicopter bearing the marks of their conspirator.
Claudia smiled at Javin and said, “It’s happening.”
“Yeah, it is. I never thought I’d return to Iraq in this way.”
“Me neither. But I’m glad we’re back in the CIS.”
“Not exactly back.”
Claudia shrugged. “Well, conditional, but we were expecting something like that. Once we complete this assignment, we’re good.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Chan might have something else in mind.”
“You know it wasn’t him who made the decision. He has a boss too.”
Javin nodded. “Yes, I shouldn’t complain. This could have gone much worse.”
“Yes, that’s the spirit. Now, we left in such a hurry that I forgot to show you something.” She produced her cellphone, tapped a couple of buttons, then slid her fingers across the screen. When she found what she wanted, Claudia handed the phone to Javin.
“What am I looking at?”
“What happened to our Iranian friend.”
“Commander Bakhtiar?”
“You have other Iranian friends I don’t know about?”
“You’re right. He’s the only one.”
Javin read through the two-page report, then shook his head.
“What do you think?”
“I’m impressed. I didn’t think Mossad would take care of him in this way.”
“If this is Mossad.”
“We both know it is them, although they’ll never admit it.” He returned the phone to Claudia.
“It doesn’t matter who it was. Bakhtiar is history, and so is Martin.”
Javin nodded slowly. “Did I tell you that I’ve decided to sell the house?”
Claudia peered at him. “Yours and Steffi’s house?”
“Yes. It’s ... it’s time. I ... I’ve mourned enough. And I uncovered what happened to her, and the people responsible for her death paid with their lives.”
“Yes, Javin. You’ve been through so much.”
Javin shrugged. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”
“It does. I’m glad that finally you’re able to find some closure.”
Before Javin could reply, the pilot said, “ETA to RV: thirty seconds.”
Javin nodded at Claudia. “Let’s get ready.”
He stood up and hoisted his knapsack high on his back. Then he slung the carbine over his shoulder and slid open one of the helicopter’s doors. A swirling curtain of dust swept through the helicopter when it came to about fifty feet above the sand hills. The pilot was not going to land, and Javin and Claudia would have to fast-rope to the ground below, then make their way to a tan Nissan SUV about two hundred yards away, at the bottom of the hill.
“Steady the helo,” Javin shouted at the pilot.
The helicopter dipped about three feet and hovered almost perfectly still.
“How does the anchor look?” Claudia pointed to the rappel hardware affixed to the roof of the cabin right above the door.
“It’s all right.” Javin checked the steel karabiner for damage and fed the rope through the field clevis. He pulled on the rope, testing its strength. “We’re good.”
“Go, go, go,” the pilot shouted over the rumble of the two engines.
Javin looked at Claudia. “Ready?”
She tested the straps of her camouflaged knapsack resting on her shoulders. “Let’s do this.”
“Drop rope,” Javin shouted, giving the pilot the signal they were ready to descend. Then he threw the large coil of black rope overboard.
“See you at the bottom, Javin.”
“Yes.” He gave Claudia a thumbs-up.
Javin tossed the headset at the nearest seat and tightened his gloves. He grabbed the braided nylon cord with both hands and swung his body outside the helicopter. He locked his feet around the rope and began to lower himself. Javin eased the grip of his hands, allowing the rope to slide slowly through his fingers. He kept his boots fastened against the rope at all times and felt the friction of the rope on his gloves.
The helicopter jerked a few inches upward. The rope scraped against his vest. Javin threw his head to the side to avoid bruising his face and held tight to the rope. As he reached the end, he let go and jumped down, rolling on the hill slope.
A moment later, Claudia dropped next to Javin.
“Welcome to Iraq,” he said.
“Don’t make yourself at home,” Claudia replied.
The helicopter banked to the right, turning around at a fast pace.
Javin and Claudia raised their hands to protect their faces from the sand whirlpool and waited for the haze to settle. When they could see clearly, Javin pointed at the Nissan SUV. A man had stepped out and was leaning against the hood.
It was their signal that everything was clear.
Javin glanced at Claudia, then said, “Time to do some corrections.”
“Always.”
They waded through ankle-deep sand toward the SUV, toward their new assignment.
BOOKS BY ETHAN JONES
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Javin Pierce Spy Thriller Series
The Iranian Incident
Short Story
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Find out what truly happened to Commander Shahriyar Bakhtiar after he betrayed Javin by clicking below and enjoy this bonus short story. You'll not only receive this, but exclusive content and deals through Ethan's Exclusives.
Javin Pierce Spy Thriller Series
Retrieval - Book 4
The Story
Can a lethal assassin have a soft side?
After a botched operation in Geneva, Javin Pierce and his partner are offered the chance to return to the CIS if they eliminate two senior ISIS leaders hiding in Iraq. Dispatched to the lawless lands, Javin and Claudia start to gather intel, and soon find themselves immersed in a sinister corruption scheme that reaches top-level Iraqi officials. Javin isn’t about to walk away.
Now, being hunted down by ruthless ISIS fighters, the team fights to survive and navigate crooked, ever-shifting allegiances. As Javin and Claudia forge bonds with unlikely local allies from a refugee camp, Javin gets more than he bargained for. The evidence leads to Europe and an elaborate retrieval that, if successful, will tear down the entire corruption scheme and bring desperate relief to the camp.
Javin now realizes his ticket back into the agency might be his most dangerous but satisfying mission yet. How will Javin clean up the targets, get back into the agency, and execute the seemingly impossible retrieval, all without leaving a trace?
Chapter One
Boulder, Colorado
United States of America
Asif, the former jihadist fighter for the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, or ISIS, frowned as he turned the small Ford Focus onto Arapahoe Avenue. The patio area of Thrive—the raw vegan organic eatery where the meeting with his handler was going to take place—was crowded with “hippies.” It was the insulting label the fighter reserved for everyone who seemed to be practicing a healthier, active lifestyle, visible in their slim or athletic bodies. Most of the patrons were wearing colorful t-shirts stamped with messages bringing attention to saving the planet, the elephants, or to tearing down walls.
The fighter cursed them out loud as he parked as close as he could to the entrance. He disliked being summoned out of his hideout in Boulder’s southern outskirts. The last few days had been very problematic. One of the sleeper cell members was arrested a week ago in Washington, DC. That event had caused the rest of the cell to scatter across the country. He had driven for two long days from his small apartment in Detroit, Michigan to Denver, Colorado.
The cell’s handler, however, was nervous about Asif living in the Muslim community in the southern part of the city. Some of the community members, allegedly even a couple of the mosque leaders, reportedly worked for the FBI or other American intelligence agencies. So the handler had moved Asif to Boulder, a city of about a hundred thousand people just twenty-five miles northwest of Denver. The fear of being discovered was also the reason why this meeting was taking place in “hippieland,” theoretically beyond the reach of any Muslim traitors or FBI agents.
Asif cursed again and studied the small eatery through his windshield. A handful of patrons were sitting at the counter set along the windows. The handler had not arrived yet, but Asif was fifteen minutes early. He always liked to get a feel for the place, its surroundings, find the emergency exits, and prepare a contingency plan, if things went sideways. Reconnaissance and preparation had kept him alive during the battle of Mosul, the Iraqi town controlled by ISIS for three years, between 2014 and 2017. He had escaped just as the Iraqi Army, assisted by the United States-led coalition, had started their efforts to retake the strategic city.
The same attitude of always being prepared had allowed him to infiltrate a team of the White Helmets, a controversial humanitarian organization operating in Syria. Over four hundred members of the organization—which allegedly had ran false flag operations and had assisted in Islamic extremists’ savage attacks—had been evacuated from Syria shortly before the fall of East Aleppo, one of the bloodiest battles of the never-ending civil war. Asif had made his way to Canada, and then had slipped through the border into the United States. Shortly after his arrival, he had been activated for the White House bombing. Now that that plot had been postponed, Asif could hardly wait for his next assignment.
He turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. The temperature was pushing north of one hundred degrees, and the air was thick with moisture. The air conditioner in the car was barely working, and Asif’s forehead was already covered in patches of sweat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and hurried toward the eatery.
As soon as he opened the door, the blast of the cool air hit him. Asif did not have a chance to enjoy it, though, because a white foxy-looking dog growled, then barked at him. Instinctively, Asif stepped to the side, then readied his foot to kick the small dog.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” The middle-aged woman sitting by the door pulled on the dog’s leash, trying to force it to sit on the floor. “She’s never like that. Sorry.”
“She better learn to behave, or something bad will happen to her.” Asif stared with fiery eyes at the dog.
“Again, sorry.” The woman’s voice took on a defensive tone, and she avoided Asif’s eyes.
The dog—which was an Akita, originating from the mountainous region of northern Japan of the same name—growled again at Asif. The loyal breed was used for tracking game or protecting their owners. The woman placed her hand on the dog’s head and gave it a quick pat, but she did not pull back on the leash.
Asif cursed the dog and the woman under his breath, then headed toward the counter. Loud reggae music filled the air, along with the delicious aroma of fried onions and peppers. “What’s up, man?” said the man behind the counter with a friendly smile and a nod. His long hair and beard were of a strawberry-blond color. A green-and-gray bandana covered most of his forehead.
Asif said nothing. He glanced at the wide array of shelves on the wall filled with all sorts of bottles, cans, and packages. Then his eyes fell on the counter, most of which was covered by small figurines of Buddha, rocks, pieces of wood, and other ornaments that Asif assumed had some sort of mystical or positive energy power. Hippie nonsense.
He shook his head, then glanced at the handwritten menu on a blackboard to the right side. He did not understand most of the words, like “yerba,” “matcha,” or “hemp milk,” so he asked, “Can I get an ice coffee?”
“Sure. Would you like anything—”
“Just coffee. With little ice.”
“What size?”
“Large.”
“Right away. It’s $3.33.”
Asif cringed when he heard the price. Back in Iraq, he could have bought two pounds, perhaps even more, of excellent Turkish coffee, which was a hundred times better than this watered-down filtered dark water the Americans called coffee. He had not been working during the last month he had been living in the US, and the allowance he received from the handler barely covered the most basic expenses.
He picked up the receipt, hoping the handler could pay for it. Or at least for lunch, since it was his idea to meet here. Then he found a seat near the back of the eatery, at the counter that was made out of a wood-carved pattern that resembled a tree trunk. He ran his hand over the smooth veneered sur
face, paying extra attention to a nook where a cluster of small rocks and shells had been enclosed. He nodded at the craftsmanship and was reminded of his father. He used to do woodworking, and had the same or perhaps even a greater set of skills than those demonstrated here. He had tried to teach Asif at least the basics, but he had been too disinterested and stubborn to learn. Asif was more interested in using knives and rifles as tools of his trade.
He glanced at his phone for a moment, then put it away. His eyes studied the faces of the patrons, then his eyes rested on the dog. Its head was turned the other way, but Asif still felt the dog had somehow recognized him. I hate this place and this country. He cursed the dog again, then glanced at his wristwatch.
When the coffee arrived in a few moments, he took a small sip, unsure about what to expect. He was pleasantly surprised, because it was quite good. Not as good as the Turkish coffee I make and still not worth almost four dollars, but still not bad. He sipped it again, then glanced out the window.
His eyes noticed the handler walking through the busy parking lot. He had already spotted Asif and gave him a small head nod that seemed like he was summoning him to come outside. Really? It’s scorching hot out there, even in the shade.
Asif brought the cup to his mouth and waited for the handler to come inside the eatery. He did and headed straight to the counter, without looking in Asif’s direction. The handler chatted with the man behind the counter in a way that gave Asif the impression the handler was a regular patron. That feeling was reinforced when the man gave the handler his food—something of a purple color in a large plastic cup. What did he get? And how did he get it so fast? The handler opened the door and headed outside, toward a small table with two chairs that had just become available. It was somewhat in the shade.
