Kill Zone: A Sniper Novel (24 page)

YOUSIF AL-SHOUM, STANDING
in the hatch of his BMR, saw the smoking ruin of the quad-barrel Zeus as they entered the village. Clumps of junk littered the street in front of the Americans’ house, debris blown over from the demolished building of the jihad fighters, which burned with fury. The door to the Americans’ place had been splintered by the force of the blast and was hanging on a single hinge. The body of the soldier he had left on guard was sprawled dead beside the steps. He ordered both vehicles to a stop, and his men formed a perimeter.

“Mr. Logan, you come with me.” Logan wiggled from the hatch behind him and a soldier followed with a pistol at Logan’s back. “Call out to your friend,” Al-Shoum ordered.

“Hey, Collins! Jimbo! You in there? It’s me, Vic. Put down your weapon. We’re coming in.” Logan stepped to the doorway, but the officer cut in front of him with his pistol out.

“I will enter first.” He stepped around the sagging door and into the room. The body of Jimbo Collins was sprawled in a corner. Al-Shoum moved toward the back of the house.

Logan kept his hands above shoulder level as he went up the steps with the guard at his heels. It was now or never. Get the AK, spray the guard, and take the smarmy little officer as a hostage. When he cleared the doorway, Logan back-kicked the guard and sent him reeling. He reached up to snatch the AK-47 waiting above the door, but his hands closed on thin air and his palms slapped the empty wall. He looked up. The gun was gone. NOTHING! He lowered his hands.

The major spotted the pegs. “A weapon was hidden up there, wasn’t it, Mr. Logan? For emergencies… like this.” Al-Shoum smacked Logan’s head with the butt of his pistol and Vic staggered, seeing stars. “You were going to try to escape, and maybe shoot me in the process.” Two soldiers ran in, grabbing and punching Logan. “Try something like that again, and you will be as dead as your friend in the corner. Now where is the general?”

“Over there, that room behind that door.” Logan pointed. “Handcuffed to the bed.”

Al-Shoum opened the door, took a look, and stepped right back out. “No one is there. It seems that you have lost your most prized possession. So what about this magic computer? Where is it?”

Logan looked at the table where the laptop usually rested beside the secure telephone. The phone had been crushed, and both computers were gone. He began walking around the room, looking for a place where Jimbo might have hidden them. “It has to be here somewhere. When I find it, I’ll show you what we can do. Gates Global has a fantastic network.” He rummaged through the kitchen area and the meager belongings in the living quarters, his mind working fast. The damn things were obviously gone.

“
And what is this!”
The Syrian officer had opened the door to the second bedroom and seen the naked and tortured body of a young girl exposed on the bed, with flies feasting on the dried blood and cuts. Her wide, lifeless eyes stared toward the door and a wide strip of tape was on her mouth.

Logan pushed past him, ran into the room, and came to a stop beside the body. It was time for the performance of his life, or he was breathing his last breaths. He thought of Charles Bronson, but he needed emotion, some heavy Clint Eastwood. “Ohhh. Nooo! Jimbo, you fucking bastard!” he howled in mock outrage. He stormed back to the body of Jimbo Collins and kicked it hard in the ribs. Again. “You sick fucking bastard! Couldn’t keep your hands off her! I hope you rot in hell!”

Logan turned to the officer, panting and trying to appear shocked. “She was our cleaning girl, and Jimbo was always giving her the eye, saying what he wanted to do with the kid. He was a sick fuck with a record of sex crimes that got him thrown out of the army. I made him leave her alone because we were here to run an operation, not get involved with his sex fantasies. The sick asshole probably raped her this afternoon, and I didn’t know because I came in late. I didn’t even know she was in there!”

“A young Muslim woman has been defiled and murdered by you infidels,” the major said with stone in his voice. “You tried to find a hidden weapon, your computer has apparently been taken along with the missing general, and somebody is waging a one-man war out there.” He buried the barrel of his pistol into Victor Logan’s stomach, then pushed it up his chest and beneath his chin. “I have run out of reasons to keep you alive, Mr. Logan, other than to let the villagers kill you slowly for the death of that child. I’m sure they would be quite imaginative in the punishment. I will suggest that long knives play a part.”

For one of the few times in his life, Victor Logan felt fear. “I didn’t have anything to do with the girl!” he protested, now Charlie Sheen earnest, like in the movie when he was pitching for the Cleveland Indians. “I didn’t touch her. I swear, Major. Jimbo wanted her!”

“Stop lying!” The major cracked him with the pistol butt again. “We can smell the body rotting from out here. You did it yourself, or you let it happen. You are nothing but a piece of filthy trash. Either way, under our laws, you will be put to death. I can give you a bullet in the head right now, but I would prefer that you be gutted in public.”

Logan was sweating hard. “Come on, man. Don’t even think like that. You know that through Gates Global, I got a lot of resources. Let’s just get another computer and I can try to link up with my passwords. I’ll give you anything you want to know.” He was bartering for time again. Having both computers suddenly go missing had worked to his advantage because he did not have to deliver on his promise yet. And he didn’t think the officer was really all that upset over the whore. He had seen how Arabs treated women.

“That will take some time,” the Syrian replied. “There probably are no more computers in the entire village.”

“Yes, there is. I know of one,” Logan said, a desperate idea bouncing into his head. “There’s a Frenchman who was helping us. He lives just a few blocks away. I know that he uses a laptop for his business, and has wireless reception. Maybe I can rig that up to do the job.” He could always make it
not
work, and blame it on sand or poor construction, or some other problem. Anything to stop this little shit from killing him for a few more minutes.

“Really? In my opinion, we are wasting time. I want to go find your escaped general now.”

“Look, Major, I know you think I’m a fuckup, but there are other ways that I can still help you get him. Really, I can. The Marine who snatched the general has to be some sort of special ops dude, which means that he and I went through all of the same schools and training in the States, because I used to be a Navy SEAL. I
can think like him!
I know his limitations and his strengths and what his choices will be. I can help you find them.” Logan was just treading water now, grabbing at straws to stay afloat, to stay alive.

“We have plenty of people trained in special forces techniques. I don’t need you.”

“Are they right here? Right now? How many of them went to U.S. spec ops courses? I guarantee this guy would run rings around any of them.”

“Like in the mystery books, Logan? It takes a thief to catch a thief?”

“You got it. And I want this guy as badly as you do. I know that you will pop me if I don’t catch him. He’s my ticket out of here, right?”

“Maybe.” Al-Shoum told a couple of soldiers to go to the Frenchman’s house and fetch his computer. He had known Pierre Falais for a number of years and considered him one of the better sources of information from the outlying territories, although he played all sides of the street. But Falais obviously had not reported everything he knew about the kidnapping of the American. He made a mental note to have a talk with him a little later.

Al-Shoum dialed a number on his cell phone and got his office in command in Damascus, reporting in rapid Arabic that the Marine general had escaped, apparently with the assistance of a skilled American special forces operator. He paused, listening, and wrote in a notebook. He replied with some questions and listened to the answer with a frown, then closed the telephone.

“Our intelligence sources have come up with the name of the man behind all this,” he told Logan. “He is a U.S. Marine sniper named Kyle Swanson. Apparently he is very good, and sometimes does special work for the CIA. The bad news is that Damascus is pressing me to decide what our government should do.”

“You get to make that kind of decision?” Logan asked.

“I work in the Security Directorate as the director of operations, and rank is meaningless, because I have the authority to do anything I need to do. That means that I can have you killed at any time and no one will question it. Are we clear?”

Victor Logan nodded vigorously.
Jesus H. Christ! Their top spook!

Al-Shoum turned on his heel, heading for the door. “I’m going to let you live a while longer, Logan. You will be my hound going after this fox. And you had better prove that you are very, very good at the job.”

Logan kept his face iron-straight. “Not to worry, General. I’ll get ‘em back.”

Another thunderous roar shook the village when the booby-trapped home of the Frenchman blew up three blocks away. Al-Shoum was flung against a wall, and a sharp piece of flying glass sliced the arm he threw up over his face to protect his eyes. Logan was tumbled to the floor and the table collapsed on top of him. Dirt poured from the ceiling, and windowpanes crinkled the floor with glass shards. The men looked at each other.

“Let me guess. The Marine visited the Frenchman’s house, too.” Al-Shoum got up and brushed himself off, casually pulling the fragment of glass from his arm, then stomped outside and watched the latest fire. A soldier rushed up to bandage the wound. “You are one pathetic operator, Logan.”

Behind him, Victor Logan suppressed a grin. There went that computer, too.

AMBASSADOR SAMIR ABU-ADWAN
of Jordan picked at his dark mustache as Shari Towne told her story. Her mother, his good friend Layla Mahfouz Towne, sat beside Shari, gently holding her hands. Layla had given him a synopsis, and he now listened to Shari himself with growing shock and indignation. Abu-Adwan knew the President of the United States would never order the assassination of a kidnapped Marine general. If such an order came from the White House, it certainly had not come from the President. Shari Towne’s superior was running amok and creating an international crisis.

“You do not have a copy of this letter yourself, Shari?” he asked in a smooth baritone voice that showed sincere sympathy. As a veteran diplomat, he had many voices for different situations, but he knew that if he tried any disguise now, Layla would see right through it. Better to be honest.

“No, Mr. Ambassador. I don’t.”

“And you have never even seen a copy of it, either, am I correct?”

“That’s right.”

The ambassador entwined his fingers and rested his chin on them. “Gerald Buchanan is a shifty weasel,” he said. “Such a thing is not beyond him. I sincerely doubt that the President knows anything about this. Your information adds significantly to the new situation.”

Layla blinked. “What situation?”

“One reason that I am being such a bad host and ignoring my guests is that something urgent has come up. The Department of Homeland Security has increased the terror alert status to Red, the highest level, and television networks are reporting that American intelligence agencies have picked up credible evidence of a possible terrorist strike against the United States. I think our party downstairs will be breaking up very soon as people learn that. From what you have told me, this alert also bears Buchanan’s fingerprints.”

“There was no such terrorist chatter mentioned just a few hours ago when I was at the National Security Council meeting,” Shari said, shredding the tissue clutched in her hands. “In fact, everything was focused on Syria and General Middleton. Usually these things take time to build up enough to get our attention. Since the Middle East was my desk, I certainly would have heard something, and I haven’t.”

“That brings me to the other matter,” said Abu-Adwan. “We have received notification from the State Department that U.S. military action is now being contemplated against Syria.”

“But why?” Shari was on her feet now, pacing the elaborate burgundy carpet, the tears gone and her mind again at work, picking at the puzzle. “We have no true evidence of Syrian involvement, at least officially. The general was kidnapped in Saudi Arabia, not Syria! Why would they take him back to their country and make a big announcement about it, then allow some terrorist group to threaten a public beheading, which would be a hostile act guaranteed to inflame the United States, just as it is happening right now?”

“Why indeed?” replied the ambassador. “That is why you and I and your mother are going over to State right now to ask these same questions. Before I came to see you, based on Layla’s comments, I made some telephone calls and arranged a meeting with Undersecretary James Dalton and the ambassadors from Syria, Israel, and Lebanon to try to make sense of what is going on. Amman has advised me to relay the great concern of King Abdullah and our government about this situation. I asked to include you in our meeting. Mr. Dalton told me that you are a fugitive from justice.”

That hit Shari hard, and she took a deep breath. “It’s not a good feeling to be considered a traitor to my country.”

“I know, Shari. You’ve done the right thing, and we will smooth it all over after we douse this crisis. For your information, our Syrian neighbors disclaim any active participation in the kidnapping. Didn’t even know it had happened until General Middleton showed up in their backyard. They also are distancing themselves from the Rebel Sheikh in Iraq, who is getting too strong and influential for the tastes of many of us. They think that despite what he claims, the sheikh arranged to place Middleton in Syria to embarrass Damascus and cover his own involvement.”

“Can we believe the Syrians?” Shari looked at him hard.

The ambassador nodded. “They don’t mind plucking a tail feather out of the American eagle every once in a while, but this incident is spinning far beyond anything they had bargained for. They definitely do not want to bring a hail of cruise missiles down on their heads.” He stood up and adjusted his impeccable suit.

“Now, Shari, I think I have a bit of good news for you. There are some reliable reports from Syria that General Middleton is no longer in captivity, and that he escaped with the help of an American Marine who survived the tragic helicopter crash. It seems like your friend Kyle Swanson and General Middleton are on the loose.”

Shari sat down beside her mother. “Thank God! They’re both safe?”

“Apparently for the moment, but Syrian army units are in pursuit. Let’s hope we can settle this mess diplomatically before there is a confrontation,” the ambassador responded. “Shall we go?”

Shari balked. “They will arrest me.”

“Shari, you must turn yourself in. I will deliver you personally to the undersecretary at the Department of State, and you will tell him your story. There is a high probability that you will never be taken into custody. In addition, the presence of your mother, myself, and the other ambassadors will guarantee an unpleasant diplomatic incident if Mr. Buchanan tries to take any hasty action.”

“You don’t know Buchanan, Mr. Ambassador. He can do anything he wants to do. If I give myself up, I may be spending the next few years in some dark prison in the middle of nowhere.”

The ambassador lowered his voice. “I do not intend to let you out of my sight until this matter is resolved. I promise that you won’t get lost in the system. Undersecretary Dalton is an old friend and an honorable man, and the information you possess is of such value that you were right to seek our protection. Turning yourself in will demonstrate that you were simply trying to stay alive long enough to get the truth out. In fact, I think your government will probably want you to be a witness against Mr. Buchanan in a courtroom. They also will be very appreciative that you did not go to the media with this.”

Ten minutes later, Shari was in the front seat of a black Mercedes, beside a handsome Jordanian soldier who served as a combination driver and bodyguard. Her mother sat in back with the ambassador, who was talking on his cell phone.

The ambassador had been correct, and the embassy party had emptied quickly as word spread of the unexpected increase in the terror alert, everyone forsaking the food and drink tables to rush back to their offices to cope with whatever was happening. Taxis sailed about and traffic was heavier than normal for the hour.

The Mercedes with diplomatic license plates drove easily through the streets of Embassy Row and Shari drew comfort from the familiar monuments and squares of Washington, which was aglow in the early night. People had gotten off work and were packed into the bars and restaurants, and the nightlife was beginning to throb. The driver edged around a bicycle messenger with a flashing taillight. Even at night, those bikers were an effective way to get important documents from one federal department to another, or to bureaucrats from the K Street lobbyists, and the government never really slept.

The car stopped at a red traffic signal, third in line, and Shari knew the State Department was only about five blocks away. Maybe they could stop this madness. And she could not help but be happy that Kyle was alive. If he had Middleton and they were escaping, Kyle was in his element and would use every trick in the book to elude pursuit. Soon they would be together again.

She was startled by a tap on her window, and the bike messenger smiled and made a hand motion to roll the glass down. Beneath the visor of his black helmet, she saw that he had a lean face, with a neat beard and bright teeth. He probably wanted directions. As the driver looked over at the noise, another bike rolled up on his side, and its rider slammed a small sledgehammer into the window, stuck a SIG-Sauer pistol into the jagged hole, and fired four bullets into the distracted young driver. Shari screamed and covered her face with her hands as the man’s blood and brain matter splattered her. Restrained by her seatbelt, she could barely move.

The biker on her side then used a hammer of his own to smash through her window, and Shari felt glass shards cut into her, sharp pins and knifelike slashes chewing at her skin. In the back seat, Layla screamed, and leaned forward to try to reach Shari while Ambassador Abu-Adwan scrambled to grab a pistol secreted in the armrest. Both bikers now had their pistols inside the car and sprayed full clips at all of the passengers while shouting “
Allahu Akbar,”
the familiar “God is great” war cry often used by terrorists.

They remounted the bikes and sped away through a park, lights off, cutting sharp corners and disappearing into the darkness in moments. Two hand grenades they left behind detonated inside the Mercedes, setting the big car afire as stunned pedestrians and other drivers who had moved forward quickly backed away.

The bikers rode up a platform into the rear of a waiting panel truck bearing the logo of a plumbing company that was parked in a loading zone outside a restaurant. The doors were shut behind them and the blue truck moved out into traffic, heading for a garage in a run-down area of suburban Maryland.

In Alexandria, Virginia, Gordon Gates watched the entire attack unfold on a television screen through streaming video transmitted live by small cameras mounted on the bike helmets of the Shark Team. Buchanan had fed him the information intercepted from the Jordanian Embassy after the NSA computers picked up the name of Shari Towne. Gates assigned the job to his closest sharks, and they did well, he thought. One down.