The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (31 page)

61

I
was slipping through the trees, closing in on Knuckles, when I got the call from Jennifer.
Two down. One to go
.

I saw Knuckles ahead and heard Jennifer say, “Targets are hidden, but they’re armed. You want us to take the weapons?”

“No. Leave them on the bodies. Give the police something to hang on them when they’re found. They’re no threat to us now.”

“Roger all. You guys need help?”

“Nope. Get Carly out of here. Blood’s bringing an exfil vehicle. All I need is Knuckles. I want you to prep for reception. We can store him in the van, but I need some life support equipment and a guard roster.”

Jennifer said, “Roger all. I can do that.”

“One other thing: Get Kurt on the line. Let him know what happened, and that we have a detainee.”

She said, “Through no fault of our own?”

“Well, of course. I can’t help it if the man Guy’s hunting is now hunting us. Works out.”

She said, “I can do that. See you at the flamefest.”

Meaning the after-action review when we were done. She was not-so-subtly telling me she was going to have an issue with this operation.

I smiled and said, “See you there.”

I caught up with Knuckles on a park bench, tossing bread to the pigeons and looking like he was just killing time. I slid in next to him, saying, “Where are they?”

“Straight through the trees to the left. By that fake pond. They’re talking on the phone.”

I laughed. “Or more likely
not
talking on the phone. All targets down, and they’re trying to figure out what to do. They can’t get anyone on their team.”

“As far as we know. They might have a hundred people in here.”

“No way. If they did, they’d have reacted differently. There might be one more team to the north, but they’re no threat.”

I couldn’t see who he was talking about because of the trees. I said, “I need eyes on.”

He said, “Switch with me. You can see them. They aren’t moving.”

I did and focused on the Arab. He was about five foot seven, but looked solid. Like he lifted weights. Not something I was used to seeing in a terrorist target. The other man was a nondescript pipe-swinger with the ubiquitous leather jacket and thick beard.

I watched the Arab’s actions for a minute, then said, “That guy works out.”

Knuckles knew exactly what I meant by the statement. Anyone who worked out consistently had a discipline, a control over his destiny that most did not. It may be just to pick up chicks, but an Arab doing so was an indicator. Not necessarily in a bad way, but an indicator nonetheless.

Okay, given that he was in a park, with a known Greek organized-crime man, hunting a CIA agent, it was in a bad way.

I watched a little bit longer, then said, “And he’s hyperalert. He’s looking for the bad man.” I focused on his face, but couldn’t make a connection to the pictures we had. He was simply too far away.

I said, “You sure he’s one of the guys from the target package?”

Knuckles laughed and said, “Hell, no. Those pictures weren’t the
best, but there was something about his eyes. Remember the intel pictures on the armband? Three guys looking like the usual inbred terrorist fuck, and that one guy looking like a mug shot, where he wanted to kill the photographer?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“That’s this guy. I don’t know when that picture was taken, but this guy has the same look. Same eyes. Like he’s pissed off at the world.”

I considered his information, then gave him my ultimatum. “Okay. They’re the same-looking guy. I think it’s him, but I’m not betting my career on it. What do you think? Is this good enough for Omega for you?”

Knuckles looked at me. “You want permission? From me?”

I said, “Yeah, I guess I do. Carly’s out clean. Mission accomplished. But Guy is still out there, and that Arab is involved. Do
you
think taking him down is worth it?”

He sat for a spell, then said, “Yeah. Guy’s worth it. And that fuck is the key.”

I heard the words and felt a swell of vindication. Knuckles deflated it fairly rapidly. He stood and said, “Besides, this won’t be the first time I’ve done something stupid. But it’s always with you, for some reason.”

I rose up and said, “Okay, okay, no reason to rub it in. I’ll take the Arab, you take beard guy. Rip his ass quickly, because I’ll be jamming a barrel into the Arab’s ribs. I need him to see he has no alternative. I don’t want him to even think about a fight.”

He said, “No issues. You want to do it here? Or let them move?’

“Hang on a sec.” I got on the radio and said, “Blood, Blood, what’s your status?”

“Got the vehicle and I’m inbound. I can circle the block a few times, but there’s no parking. President’s palace takes priority. I do a couple of loops, and I’m going to draw some stares.”

Knuckles said, “Guess that answers the question.”

“Yeah, it does. They’re parallel to the southern exit right now, and nobody’s around. I say we take them.”

“Someone shows up, and we’re done.”

I started walking to them, saying, “Yeah, yeah. Story of my life. Just take that guy down quickly. Then we’re moving straight west, both of us controlling the Arab.”

I keyed the radio and said, “Blood, we’re moving to interdict. Status?”

“One block over. Standing by on your call. Be advised, there’s an armed security guard on the building adjacent to the exit.”

“Doing what?”

“Doing nothing but standing. No idea why, but he’s got an MP5. Looks old and worn, like it’s passed from man to man, but the building is something worth the investment.”

Knuckles heard the words and glanced at me. I raised my brow, and he just shrugged. Telling me to go ahead.

I picked up the pace, closing on our targets. The Arab was standing stiffly, looking annoyed. The Greek was dialing his phone. I knew he would get nothing. They were both on the edge of a man-made turtle pond, the concrete cracked and worn. To their left was a stand of shrubs, about ten feet away. Where we’d stash the body of the guy on the phone.

We hit the apex of the lake, the path leading us right at them, and I looked at Knuckles, an unspoken command.

Showtime
.

I unholstered my pistol, a compact Glock 27, chambered in .40 caliber. Knuckles quickened his pace, getting one step ahead of me.

We got within five feet of our targets before they noticed we were there. They ignored us, intent on their phone conversation. Or lack thereof. Knuckles came abreast of the Greek and whirled, roping his
arm over his head and kicking his knee at the same time, the man’s neck taking his full weight in the bend of Knuckles’s arm. Knuckles tucked his shoulder into the man’s head, forcing it down, then used his other hand to lever the arm, scissoring it into the carotid arteries and cinching tight.

The Arab saw the action and gasped, starting to react. I threw my arm over his head and pulled him close to me, jamming my Glock into his kidney. I spoke into his ear, saying, “Easy, easy. Don’t move.”

He froze for an instant, then surprised the hell out of me.

In one fluid move, he stepped to the right, hooking his leg behind mine and bending down. With his right hand, he swept my weapon out, pushing the barrel away from his body, at the same time jerking upward with his leg, breaking my balance. He coiled, then threw himself backward.

He landed on top of me and swiftly rotated, attacking my weapon arm with both hands, clamping the hand and trapping my elbow. His head burrowed into my chest to protect himself, he began working the hold, now inches away from an arm bar that would shatter my shoulder.

He locked the hold together in a classic paintbrush and began to sweep the ground with my wrist, the entire action happening so fast I was stunned.

I lost the weapon.

He was strong, and Jesus,
he could fight
.

I felt my shoulder begin to give, and instinct kicked in. I rolled my body toward the sweep, breaking the tension on my shoulder and punching him in the back of the head with two jabs. He continued to work the hold, and I knew I needed to get him to focus somewhere else. Punching wasn’t working.

I reached across his head with my left hand and clamped it onto
his forehead, searching for his eyes with my fingers. I pulled his head backward, gouging the eyes as hard as I could from my weak position. He screamed and jerked upright, giving me immediate relief.

I pulled my arm free and clamped my legs around his waist, then reached across his body, grabbing his shirt collar with both hands, my arms forming an X. I yanked out and saw his eyes bulge. He tried to pry my arms open, wrenching and grunting to no avail. I pulled harder. He hit me in the face, but I didn’t quit. Huffing like a bull, he rose with brute strength, holding me in the air, my legs around his waist and my arms still cinching his shirt into his neck.

He slammed back into the ground, my body taking the full force of both our weights. One of my hands broke free, and it was enough of a respite for him to continue. He collapsed on top of me and we began swimming our limbs, both fighting for position, arms and legs moving in and out in a game of action and counteraction, neither one of us gaining dominance, the only noise the slapping of skin and the hissing of our breath.

In desperation, he went back to attempting to pound my face, forcing me to tuck my chin and block with my arms. I rotated one leg high, slamming it against his neck, trying for a triangle choke with my thighs. He swam an arm under, preventing it, and I immediately reversed and torqued with my body, flinging him over with my leg against his head. He landed on his back and mule-kicked with the strength of both thighs, throwing me off.

He leapt up, doing a Bruce Lee kung fu flip-up like he was being filmed. He saw Knuckles sprinting toward him and took off, running flat out into the park.

I rose, breathing heavily, the whole fight lasting no more than a minute. Very few things were as exhausting as grappling with someone who knows what they’re doing, and the entire event was something of a shock.

I said, “What the fuck took you so long?”

He said, “Me? My guy is down. What the hell were
you
doing?”

I wiped the sweat from my face, dusted off my clothes, and picked up my useless Glock.

“That guy can fight. If there’s a terrorist camp out there teaching his skills, America’s in trouble.”

62

G
uy popped another Red Bull and slugged half of the can, absently scratching the bandage over the puncture wounds in his calf. He needed the caffeine, given that he was definitely running on a lack of sleep. But today was the endgame. The trap was set. All he had to do was get back inside Haider’s car to arm the device. A perfect final piece of justice, mimicking the way his brother had died. Only, Guy’s attack would be surgical. No massive explosion. No dead civilians. No collateral damage whatsoever.

He’d been very, very busy the last thirty hours.

He’d left Nikos and the rest of the dead where they lay, fleeing down the fire escape to the street below, pausing just long enough to use his socks as an improvised bandage on his leg, then blending into the crowds on the main avenue fronting the sex club. He’d left his car where he’d parked it, preferring to walk the six or so blocks to the Athenaeum InterContinental Hotel.

Wanting to start the mission immediately.

He’d entered, completely calm, ignoring the pain in his leg and the surreptitious glances at the blood on his jeans. He knew if he acted relaxed and normal, they’d logically connect the color to paint or some other stain. Nobody who was wounded would be acting as he was.

The attack of Nikos was already behind him, giving him no other
thought than he’d purchased breathing room to accomplish his mission. It had been bought with blood, but he was fairly sure he’d cauterized any threat from local forces. His only concern was that it would alter his target’s planned actions. They might even flee back to Qatar.

He didn’t think so, because he was convinced they had a mission to accomplish. Some greater obligation that would force them to remain. But that wasn’t a given, which required rapid action.

The hotel lobby was huge, stretching out in all directions, marble walls and pillars dominating the space. He’d looked for a spot to set up, out of sight of the exit, and found two escalators to the right of the reception desk. They went down an additional two floors, below street level, to a section of meeting rooms and scattered tables for breaks from conference panels. The top was open to the lobby, like an indoor mall, but he doubted his target would look down. And he didn’t need to look up.

He’d used Nassir’s phone history to program the Gremlin with the number Nassir had been talking to when he was captured—clearly another target—and had set an alarm to notify him when it was in proximity.

He’d sat for a little under an hour, reading a stray English newspaper and impatiently staring at the tablet screen of the Gremlin. He was running through other options for tracking the target, considering an attempt to locate his room, when the Gremlin had triggered, surprising him.

The phone was in the lobby, and the Gremlin had automatically attacked it, attempting to insert the same malware Guy had used to trap Nassir.

The signal strength from the Gremlin told him it was too weak for a rapid insert. At this pace, it would take fifteen minutes, and he was sure he didn’t have that time. He needed to close the gap. It was a risk, but he wanted eyes on to determine a profile of his target anyway.

He ignored the escalators, as they spilled out right into the heart of the lobby, and instead moved to the elevators in the rear. He exited behind the reception desk, looking at his screen. The handset was still captured, and the signal strength was growing.

He moved adjacent to the concierge desk and saw three men outside the glass doors of the entrance, talking to a bellman. Two were from his brother’s target package. One was the man he’d followed in Crete. All of them together, waiting on a vehicle. Exactly what Guy wanted to see.

A valet brought a car around, and Guy trained on the model, needing crucial information. It was a late-model Audi A7. A very expensive automobile, with very unique security components. But no automobile was completely safe, if one knew the weaknesses. In the old days, it would be a physical, metal key or a slim-jim and a hot-wire. In modern times, it was all about the digits. He watched the men enter, noting the positions, as his primary target’s location would be critical.

They settled in and drove away.

He’d learned three things he needed to know: One, the make and model of the car. Two, that they used the valet, so the key would be stored with every other valet key. And three, his primary target took the passenger’s seat, with the man from Crete driving and the other man from the target package taking a seat in the back.

He’d retrieved his car, retreated to his hotel, and got online. In the not-so-distant past—say, less than a week ago—he would have had Taskforce assets to accomplish what he wanted, but that time was gone. Luckily, the Taskforce didn’t do research and development in a vacuum. They relied on Operators to determine the direction and focus, relied on the men who would use the equipment on the ground to test and refine.

All Taskforce Operators were trained in “obtaining” vehicles in the absence of a key for in extremis use, but they’d realized that they
were learning rudimentary skills suitable for a B movie made in the ’80s, with the car industry moving leaps and bounds every year, just like everything else in the Internet age. In between deployments, Guy had been detailed to an automobile cell, created to teach the means for stealing a car with the latest electronics and security. They’d developed work-arounds for just about every make and model, a tiring slog, given the number, but in the process Guy had learned one thing: The crooks were already ahead of them.

And that’s where he turned now. People in the past who had provided unwitting assistance to a unit they didn’t even know existed.

He sent an email to an account in Beirut, Lebanon, that manufactured the two devices he needed, asking for a “dealer” in Athens, Greece. The man’s website sold the products to “help” locksmiths “recover” vehicles, but given the features touted, the legality was thinly veiled. Things like “clone a key within forty seconds,” “immediately render safe the alarm system,” and “container can be shaped in a multitude of forms”—a bunch of features that would have no bearing if the owner were standing nearby.

He closed the computer, letting the message do its work, then reserved a room at the Athenaeum with his final pay-as-you-go card. That done, he went to an electronics store for the components he’d need for his trap. Nothing special, and all commercial, off the shelf.

By the time he’d returned, he had his answer for a contact in Athens, the man in Beirut not even bothering to ascertain why he wanted to know or whether he was law enforcement. Two hours later, he had the equipment he needed to access the car. In truth, during the transaction, he’d had more fear he was dealing with someone who knew about his connection to Nikos than the man did about his being out to set him up. Clearly, nobody in Greece cared about car theft.

He was running on fumes, but he was set. He needed only two more pieces of information: where they stored the keys for valet, and where they parked the car.

He’d returned to his hotel, eating a soggy gyro for a meal and waiting until nightfall, catching the only three hours of sleep he’d get for the foreseeable future. After midnight, he’d returned to the Athenaeum. He sat across the street and waited, watching the movements of the valet drivers taking the vehicles from the rich after a night on the town. He located a closet just inside the front door, where they placed the keys, the same one that was used to temporarily store luggage from guests.

Perfect
.