Kill on Command

Kill on Command

A Sean Garrison Novel

Slaton Smith

Kill on Command

A Sean Garrison Novel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2013 by Slaton Smith

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Love cannot save you from your own fate.

- Jim Morrison

Prologue

Bloody Vengeance

Cannes, France.  Late August 2012.  7:30 P.M.

Port de Cannes Marina

Prince Abdulaziz Al S
aud emerged from his limousine followed by his entourage.  He exuded arrogance. After all, he was royalty and rich beyond measure.  He believed he projected the image of the perfect Muslim and would spend eternity in Paradise.  That’s what he told himself at least.  He was a trim sixty-two year old.  He was not the stereotypical “fat” prince. He was easily dead center in the vain category.  At six feet even, a touch of gray in his hair and beard, he could be considered dashing.  His attire was unmistakably western.  A Savile Row Navy suit.  Custom white shirt.  Handmade, cap toe, black oxfords.  On his wrist, a platinum Rolex. 

Serving Allah should have been the Prince’ first passion.  However, the reality was much different - his life’s first passion was women.  He did not have to chase them.  They came to him or rather they were delivered to him.  Indulging in every carnal pleasure he could find was how he loved to spend his time.  He loved France.  He loved the women.  He loved the way they reacted to his wealth.  He could do anything when he was away from the Kingdom - away from prying, judging eyes.

His second passion was funding terror.  Eradication of the infidel from the face of the earth was his mission.  In his warped mind, the United States was dragging everyone to hell and wiping the United States off the face of the earth would please him beyond measure.  He loved to mock the U.S. and believed he was untouchable because he was a Saudi royal. 

Included in the group were four men, his bodyguards, who had trained alongside U.S. Special Forces troops.  They were hard men.  They had killed before.  They would kill again if given the chance.  They were dressed nearly identically.  Black suits.  White shirts.  They moved smoothly through the reception area of the marina.  They looked at everyone.  Anyone could be a threat to the Prince. 

The marina reception area’s décor was more contemporary than classic.  The windows overlooked a billion dollars worth of boats.  It was not quite dark yet, but the sun was setting, casting a romantic light over the water.  As the Prince made his way through the lobby, everyone moved aside.  No one cared for the Prince.  He treated everyone as if they were bugs.  People had heard plenty of rumors.  Rumors of missing women.  Rumors of women being gang raped on his ship.

The bodyguards surrounded the Prince as he walked casually through the room, his secretary, Ahmed, followed closely behind.  He had a common name, but he was far from common.  Educated at Oxford, he spoke four languages and had studied international finance.  He owed his education to the Prince.  He also shared his employer’s passions, although not all of them.  He managed the Prince’s personal fortune.  He got things done for the Prince.

The entire group exited at the back of the room, which opened to the marina and three-dozen or more slips.  Four women in bikinis with drinks in their hands leaned on the rails of the deck overlooking the marina.  They stopped talking when the group approached.  The Prince stopped and looked at one of the women.  She had long blonde hair.  Her skin was tanned.  She had long legs.  Her top barely contained her breasts.  She could not have been more than nineteen.  Her name was Bridgette.   He nodded to Ahmed and then proceeded towards his boat.  Ahmed stopped, opened his planner and handed Bridgette a card.

In French he said, “The Prince would be honored if you would attend a private party on his yacht tonight.”

“Merci.  I would love to attend,” Bridgette said.  Her friends crowded around her.

“Excellent.  Instructions are on the card.  See you at midnight.”  With that, Ahmed turned and followed his boss.  He was out of cards.  The Prince was insatiable at times.  Ahmed felt his job was easier when they were in the Kingdom where he was not forced to procure women for his boss.   The Cannes Film Festival was non-stop agony for him.  The Prince needed to prove his Saudi virility whenever he could.  Ahmed detested the drinking.  The white women.  Just being close to the sin made him feel like he was one step closer to spending eternity in hell.   He did share one passion with his boss.  Killing infidels.  Killing Americans.  He was Wahhabi through and through.  Its ultra-conservative views appealed to him.

The Prince and his group stopped at a 95’ yacht, the
Crescent
.  It was a stunning vessel, capable of spending weeks at sea.  The Prince found the size and furnishings of the yacht to be insulting. The
Crescent
was simply a ferry for him, as he needed transportation to his home away from the Kingdom, the
Scimitar
, a 360’ yacht.  He sighed.   These were the hardships he had to endure.

The yacht left the marina and made the quick trip to the
Scimitar
.   The yacht was built for the Prince by the German firm Blohm + Voss.  It was a massive vessel with room for twenty-five or more.  A dining room with a table for twenty.  A billiards room.  The Prince’s bedroom consumed a quarter of the ship.  It was two stories tall.  There was a crystal chandelier.  A king size bed.  A full bar. 

The Prince wanted a larger boat, but it would be frowned upon by those who outranked him in the family.  He had to settle, but he had other ways to make himself feel better.  Women. 

The Prince’s head of security, Faisal, also a devout Muslim, was, as always, concerned with the Prince’s guests.  He was 6’3” and over 240 pounds.  Nearly fifty, he did not look it.  His sheer size intimidated the three guards he had working for him.  He believed the constant flow of women on and off of the boat was a security risk.  It would be easy for the Mossad to send a female assassin onto the boat to send the Prince on an early trip to Paradise.

Given the Prince’s business dealings, Faisal felt an attack was always eminent.  It could come from anywhere.  While not privy to everything the Prince and Ahmed were working on, he had an idea.  Both the Prince and Ahmed hated non-believers.  Infidels.  He heard them speak of wiring funds to support the “Jihad.”  He knew the Prince was using his endless resources to kill.  Faisal saw him as a coward.  The Prince was a terrorist.  Faisal realized he was now one too – by association.  He did not dare let his true feelings be heard.  To do so would mean death for him and all of his family.  He desperately wanted to escape from this life.

Like, Ahmed, Faisal was Wahhabi.  His stomach turned when he thought of how men like the Prince twisted something he believed in his heart to be the true path to salvation.  He had trained in America with U.S. soldiers. They treated him as one of their own.   He was fond of the Americans.  Faisal was sickened on September 11
th
.  All those innocent people.  All those families.  He knew the people that committed the atrocity had perverted Islam.  People like the Prince.  The Prince celebrated the attack. 

Faisal knew that sooner or later, the Americans would come and he would be swept away in the savage vengeance that they brought with them.  He looked out over the water and thought about home.

★★★

At the same time, a man was finishing up one of the best meals he’d had in sometime.  He was staying at the Majestic Barriere, one of Cannes most famous hotels, built in 1926 and recently remodeled.  They had done a fine job.  None of the original glamour of the hotel had been lost. 

He was dining on the open-air patio of the hotel and was dressed very casually.  He did not particularly stand out.  He had not shaved for two days.  He ran his hand through his short, dark brown hair and looked at his cell phone that was placed next to his wine glass on top of a worn French-English dictionary.   The waitress, Marie, was being very patient and trying to help him with the language. She was cute with short dark brown hair.  The uniform that the hotel required her to wear made her look a little naughty he thought.  He looked over at her at the next table.  She saw him and smiled.  It’s not the uniform.

His phone rang.  He looked at his watch.  7:35. He picked up the phone and looked at the number, but did not recognize it.  It was a Boston area code.  “What the hell?” he thought and answered it.

“Hello?” he said, holding the phone in his right hand and staring out over the marina.  He was slouching slightly in his chair.

“Ted Williams hit .406 in 1941,” the voice said.  It was flat, no inflection.

“Go on,” he answered, sitting up in his chair.

“Go to your room and wait,” the voice replied and immediately hung up.  Across the patio, a pair of fierce, ice blue eyes watched his every move.

He stood up and put the phone in his right pocket.  With his left hand, he took out his money clip, and flipped through a handful of bills.  He left 150 Euros on the table and picked up the dictionary.

He left the restaurant and walked without urgency to his room on the ground floor.  Entering, he walked into a living room containing a leather couch and matching chair.  Opposite the couch was a bar.  On one wall were windows with a sliding glass door that had a good view of the marina.  His room opened up to a small beach.  He drew the curtains, took out his phone, placed it on the arm of the chair and sat down.  He stared straight ahead motionless.

He waited.

★★★

Anchored in the Atlantic on the yacht, the Prince was preparing for his guests.  Two of the bodyguards and Ahmed took the
Crescent
back to the marina.  It was midnight.  Six women stood on the dock anxiously waiting as the yacht approached.  They wore white gowns as instructed.  The yacht pulled in and a gangway was lowered.  Ahmed did not greet them, a bodyguard named Ali did.  Ali was excited as he and the other bodyguards got seconds.  Ali figured that if it was OK for the Prince, it was OK for him.

Faisal was disgusted.  He felt his hands were tied.  The Prince saw the abuse of the women by the guards as a reward for them. 

When Bridgette met the entourage at the marina earlier in the evening, her friends were excited for her.  She had second thoughts, however.  There were rumors - rumors of women not returning, or turning up battered.  But she showed up - her curiosity had gotten the best of her.

Ali helped the girls up the gangway.  Ahmed showed the women to the living room.  The ship’s crew was pouring Champagne.  The women took the glasses, toasted each other and laughed.  Ahmed turned and closed the door to the cabin.  He motioned to the crew to take off.  They made their way out of the marina. 

It was dark.  No moon.  The temperature was in the low 80’s.  A slight breeze broke across the bow. 

Ahmed looked over the ocean.  He listened to the waves.  They were calming.  He wished he could stay on the smaller boat tonight.

Inside, Bridgette did not feel like drinking.  She had been in the sun too long today.  She sat down and watched the others.  They had been drinking for no more than ten or fifteen minutes, but they all seemed to be very drunk.  The champagne never stopped flowing.  One bottle would disappear and two more took its place.  They all whispered about the Prince.

The smaller yacht pulled along side the
Scimitar
.  Another bodyguard named Jamal entered the cabin.  The women stopped talking.  They were visibly inebriated. 

In French he said, “Put these on.”  He threw white veils at them.  They scrambled to put them on.  Most had trouble.  The drinks had gone right to their heads.  They were led to the bow of the yacht and across another gangplank to the
Scimitar
.   It was not going to be a good night for them.  Bridgette hung back.  She did not leave with the rest of the women.  She hid behind the couch.  Jamal was too busy ogling at the others to notice.  He closed the door behind them.  Bridgette stayed crouched behind the sofa for several moments. When she felt it was clear, she came out and walked across the gangplank to the larger vessel and looked around.  She could not see the girls, but she could hear them screaming.  She realized she had to get out of there.  She had to hide.  She tiptoed off the main deck, through a door, which opened to a long hall.  She chose the first door she came to.  It was a lavatory.  She opened the door, walked in and locked it behind her.  She knelt on the floor.  She did not know what to do.  Jumping overboard was not an option.  She could barely swim.  She would have to wait it out.

★★★

Back in the hotel, the phone rang again.  The man picked it up without looking.  The room was dark.