Chapter 5:
Grand Theft Auto
“We’re fucking busy right now!” Tailor snapped. We quickly moved down the two flights of stairs and out the back door of the building. We stopped at the fence. Tailor went through the hole we’d cut first, his carbine pointing to our left, up the alley. I followed, pointing the heavy SR-25 to our right. I was startled when four muffled shots rang out; one of the bodyguards had come around the corner, and Tailor had cut him down. The man crumpled to the ground, his MP5K clattering on the pavement.
Moving quickly, I opened the door of our truck, an extended-cab Toyota pickup, and tossed my gear onto the backseat. I then climbed into the driver’s seat. Tailor jumped into the passenger’s seat. I put the pickup into gear and stepped on the gas.
“Look out!” Tailor yelled. The bodyguards’ Range Rover had pulled into the alley ahead, blocking our exit. They got out and started shooting. Worse, the alley wasn’t wide enough to turn around in. Swearing aloud, I threw it into reverse and stomped on the gas.
We backed down the alley entirely too fast. Tailor fired through the windshield, his suppressed rifle hissing and snapping loudly in the passenger cabin. The enemy took cover behind their truck and returned fire. Several stray rounds peppered the front of our vehicle.
Scrunching down, hoping the engine block would provide me with protection, I tried to navigate the Toyota down the alley in reverse by using my side mirror. Rounds came whizzing through the windshield. I hit the walls five or six times, smashing through garbage cans and terrifying stray cats. Seconds later, Al Falah’s bodyguards piled back into their truck and started down the alley after us.
We exploded onto the main road, still in reverse, and were nearly broadsided by a minibus. I cut the wheel to the right and stomped on the brakes. Cars swerved around us, horns screaming as they went. I put the pickup back into drive and hit the gas. We got moving just as Al Falah’s men made it onto the street.
I sped along, having turned the wrong way to use our preplanned egress route. They were in close pursuit. At that time of the night, the roundabouts in Zubara were clogged with traffic. I didn’t want to get in a gunfight in the middle of a traffic jam, too many bystanders, too many witnesses. I hung a quick right, turning down a narrow side street. Such streets in the city had one lane going each way, with a small roundabout at each intersection. In the middle was a raised concrete divider, almost like a sidewalk, making left turns difficult.
The street was mercifully free of traffic, but within seconds, Al Falah’s men began firing at us again. Rounds entered through the back window and hit the tops of our seats. Tailor and I were hunkered down about as far as we could go.
“Will you please shoot back?” I screamed. He turned around, twisting to his left, and returned fire through what was left of the back window. Hot brass peppered me in the side of the head. I flinched and almost went off the road. “Be careful!”
As Tailor swore at me, we came to the first roundabout. My heart fell into my stomach as I realized a large truck full of sheep had broken down in the middle of it, blocking the road. Several cars were stopped around it. There was no way past. At the last instant, I cut the wheel to the right. The Toyota bucked as we jumped onto the sidewalk. I had to swerve again to avoid hitting a planted palm tree. It was hard to see clearly; the windshield was full of bullet holes and was covered in a spider’s web of cracks.
I laid on the horn as terrified pedestrians jumped out of our way. Clear of the traffic jam, I swerved back to the left, ripping off the truck’s passenger-side mirror on another palm tree as we landed back on the street. The pursuing Range Rover was right behind us now. Two men were leaning out of the windows, firing at us with pistols. I snarled in pain as a round clipped my right shoulder, causing me to almost lose control of the truck. The sudden swerving of the vehicle made Tailor drop his spare magazine as he was trying to reload.
To hell with this, I thought. “You buckled?”
“What? Why?” Tailor shouted back. I floored the brake pedal.
The Range Rover smashed into the back of our truck, crumpling the bed and tailgate. Our perforated rear window shattered completely. The big SUV considerably outweighed our little pickup. We fishtailed to the left; the Range Rover went on and crashed into a parked car.
Our ride was trashed, but we were stopped, and we were alive.
Dazed, I unbuckled myself, opened the door, and literally fell to the pavement. I somehow managed to get to my feet and looked over at our pursuers. The driver and the front passenger hadn’t been wearing seat belts. They appeared injured or dead. The airbags had deployed.
I looked around. Cars drove by, slowing down to gawk at the wreck. We didn’t have much time. With my left hand, I swept my jacket to the side and drew my revolver. I brought the gun up, pointing it at the Range Rover, but pain shot through my right shoulder as I attempted a two-handed hold. I remembered then that I was bleeding, and was suddenly aware of the pain. Holy crap did it hurt. I winced, but continued on, holding my .44 Magnum one-handed.
Approaching the SUV carefully, I looked for signs of movement. I stumbled as I walked, and couldn’t hear very well. The driver begin to stir behind his airbag. He tried to open his door, but it crunched up against the smashed tailgate of our pickup.
He didn’t see me. I fired. A fat .44 slug tore through his head, splashing the airbag with blood. I fired again, putting a bullet into the passenger. He looked dead, but I wanted to be sure.
There was a third man in the backseat. He sat up, obviously dazed. There was a cut on his forehead; blood was pouring down his face. He placed his hand on his head as he came to, not noticing me at first, but he froze when he saw the big .44 leveled at him. His eyes went wide. My hand was shaking. I could hear sirens in the distance. We had to go. We weren’t supposed to leave witnesses. I pulled the trigger again. The terrorist disappeared behind the door in a small puff of blood.
My ears were ringing. My heart was pounding. I was injured. The Calm had worn off, and I was half in shock. I took a deep breath, reloaded, then holstered my revolver. I moved to the passenger’s side door of our pickup. Tailor was starting to come around, but he was in a daze.
“C’mon, bro, we gotta split,” I said. “Cops are coming.”
“Yeah . . . yeah . . . okay . . . You get ’em?”
“I think so. C’mon, let’s go!” I grabbed the SR-25 and its carrying case from the backseat. My shoulder screamed in protest as I hefted the rifle, but I didn’t have time to worry about it. Tailor stumbled and nearly fell down but was able to retrieve his backpack, his carbine, and the spare magazine he’d dropped onto the floor of the truck. We then hurried away from the scene of the crash, heading up the street a short way before turning into a narrow alley.
Rounding the corner, we were immediately illuminated by headlights. Oh hell. The vehicle, a small French Renault, came to a stop just under a streetlight. I could see the driver. He appeared to be a Westerner.
Not sure what to do, I leveled the SR-25 at the Renault. “Get out of the car!” The man hesitated, then raised his hands, seemingly in shock. I squeezed the trigger. The suppressed rifle cracked thinly in the night air, and the Renault’s left-side mirror exploded as a 175-grain match bullet tore through it. “Now!” I ordered. The driver stepped out of the vehicle. I lowered my rifle and moved toward him. “I’m sorry,” I said without looking at him. “We need your car.”
“Bloody hell! Just take it! Don’t shoot!” He was British.
Tailor stepped up to him. “Drop your cell phone,” he said levelly, even though he still looked a little wobbly.
“Are you mad? You’re taking my car, do you have to take my bloody mobile, too?”
I’m not going to repeat the swath of obscenities that Tailor let out at that point, but an instant later the unlucky British man dropped his phone onto the ground. Tailor stomped on it, smashing it.
“Get out of here!” he yelled. The terrified man ran off down the street.
“You drive,” I said.
“Why?”
“I’m bleeding, that’s why!” I said as I tossed my weapon into the little French car’s backseat.
“Fine,” he said. We got in, Tailor put the car in gear, did a three-point turn in a narrow driveway, and we took off down the alley, away from the crash scene, just as the police arrived.
Carl’s Portuguese accent was a lot more pronounced when he was enraged. “Everybody knows Falah’s dead. We’re screwed!” he bellowed as he slammed his fist into the steering wheel. His eyes flickered back to the mirror as the sound of a siren went behind us, but it was heading for the scene of the crime and not our way. He continued, slightly calmer. “What now?”
“Pull over.” My mind was racing. The mission depended on making Al Falah disappear. “Nobody has to know he’s dead.”
“And how’re we supposed to do that, genius?” Carl pulled us into the lot of the Happy Chicken on Bakhun Street and parked the van behind a brand new Audi A8.
I got on the radio. “Reaper. Come in.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
“You’ve got the police band. Figure out where they’re taking Falah.”
Carl’s eyes studied me in the rear-view mirror. “You’ve got to be shittin’ me . . . No. You’re not,” he sighed. “We’re gonna die.”
“Eventually.”
Reaper was back in a matter of seconds. “Security forces are freaking out. How many people did you guys kill down there?” I looked at Carl and held up two fingers. He gave me one back, but he used his middle finger. “Never mind. Ambulance is en route to the hospital in Ash Shamal under police escort.”
I glanced back the way we had come. The hospital was just off Bakhun, which was the major four-lane through this peninsula. The ambulance would have to pass us. We could still intercept them. “Reaper, I want you to flood their emergency system with calls. Give them a bunch of shooters randomly killing people at the north end of Ash Shamal,” I ordered. Carl looked at me in confusion. “Let’s see what we can do about that police escort.” Zubara was a relatively quiet city by this part of the world’s standards. If they just had a bunch of people get popped in the district, they would be quick to jump at another call.
“Too late.” Carl glanced back. “I hear sirens. Here comes the ambulance.”
Through the window, I saw a pudgy, well-dressed Zubaran approaching the Audi with a sack of fast food in hand. He raised his key fob, and the car’s alarm beeped. “I’ve got an idea.”
There was no time for subtlety. I slid open the van door and hopped out. I could hear the sirens now, too. They would be passing by any second. The driver of the Audi was just sitting down as I caught the closing door with my body. He looked up in surprise and started to say something. I grabbed the keys from his hand, slugged him hard in the mouth, and jerked him onto the pavement.
The Audi started right up with a purr. I slammed it into gear and roared out of the parking lot. A dozen cows had given their lives for this interior. “Nice car,” I muttered as I shifted into second. Oncoming traffic had to stomp the brakes to avoid hitting me, then I was out on the road, northbound, the GPS told me in Arabic.
On the other side of the divider a police car zipped by, blue lights flashing, heading south. Right behind it was the ambulance. Zubaran emergency vehicles used that obnoxious European-style siren. I grabbed the radio. “Carl, I’ll take the cop car. Run the ambulance off the road!” I shouted as I cranked the wheel and gunned it over the mound of dirt that served as the divider. German cars have great suspension but I still managed to almost bite my tongue off as I crashed onto the southbound lane. I hastily put my seat belt on. The GPS told me I had just done something very bad.
Drivers in this part of the world didn’t pull off to the side for emergency vehicles. If you’re dying in the Middle East, don’t do it during rush hour. Traffic here was a constant battle of wits and honking horns. The ambulance was weaving between cars ahead of me. A Toyota tore off my passenger-side mirror, and the driver honked. Revving the powerful engine, I was doing sixty by the time I passed the ambulance. The police car, some little Euro sedan, was right ahead of me. The Audi pulled alongside effortlessly.
The cops glanced over in confusion. The look here for security forces was Saddam Hussein—style mustaches and big mirrored shades. I drifted right into them, slamming into their side, shoving them hard to the right. The cops started yelling, and the passenger was going for his gun. I drifted left a bit, then swerved back with more energy, smashing the hell out of their little car.
The driver overcorrected, turning too far to the side, and the car spun out of control in a haze of rubber smoke before crashing violently into the rear end of a parked SUV. I applied the brakes and came to a smooth stop.
The cop car was at an angle, sideways, half on top of the other vehicle. Those guys wouldn’t be causing me any trouble for a bit. I could see the flashing lights of the ambulance as it slowed to a crawl behind me. Stepping on the clutch, I shifted into reverse. “Carl, where are you?”
“Right behind the ambulance,” he replied.
“Hit the brakes,” I said as I stomped on the gas. Even in reverse this car was pretty damn quick. I braced myself as the Audi’s trunk collided with the front of the still-moving ambulance. My world came to a violent lurching halt. The rear window shattered and glass ricocheted around the cab as the air bag knocked the shit out of me.
It took me a blurry second to get the seat belt unbuckled and to collapse out the door into the street. Got to hand it to those Germans, they crash test their stuff really well. I staggered to my feet and pulled my gun. It wasn’t necessary though. The ambulance crew were groggily moving, knocked silly by the impact. The siren was still wailing.
Carl was at the back of the ambulance, dragging Al Falah’s corpse out. The cars around us had stopped, and there had to be at least a dozen eyes on us. I limped around the back to help. “Hurry up,” Carl grunted as he pulled the limp body toward our van. I grabbed his legs and lifted. He weighed a ton. We got to the van and tossed him inside, I was in right behind.
The van’s tires squealed as Carl got us out of there.
It turned out Gordon’s cool demeanor came unraveled when he was mad. It was a little amusing to see the smooth-talking slickster sputtering and raising his voice. Yelling didn’t really suit him. He wasn’t unhappy about Al Falah; we’d done quite well in that regard. As we described what happened, I could see the anger in his eyes. We failed to kill the secondary target Khalid. We lost our vehicle and had to exigently acquire a new one. Worst of all, we were seen.
I honestly don’t know what the hell he expected. We were ordered to do the hit in public in the middle of the city; of course it was going to make noise. I thought that was the point.
Looking over at Tailor, I could tell he was kind of tuning Gordon out too. As Gordon blathered on about operational security and his expectations of us, Hunter stood quietly in the corner. Sarah leaned against the wall behind him, looking at me with an expression on her face that I couldn’t read. I wondered what she was thinking. One of Hunter’s security men stood by the door, giving Anders the stink eye.
After a few minutes of ass-chewing, Gordon visibly shifted gears, and the slickness returned. He plopped down on the couch across from Tailor and me and began to speak once more as I put my T-shirt back on.
“Well, what’s done is done,” Gordon said, straightening his tie. I wondered why in the hell he was wearing a suit. “Now we need to focus on the next mission. I need you two to be ready to move on this in a few days.”
Tailor and I looked at each other. I was able to read the expression on his face. I had a bad feeling too. “What’s the next mission, sir?” I asked.
“Ms . . . uh . . . McAllister, right? Ms. McAllister, would you hand them the mission packets please?” Sarah rolled her eyes and stepped forward, handing out manila envelopes to each of us.
“Your next mission will be pretty simple, boys. You’re going to return to the social club you snatched the younger Al Falah from and clean it out. The other two men in your chalk . . .um . . .”
“Wheeler and Hudson,” I interjected, my voice flat.
“Yes, Weiner and Hudson,” Gordon replied, “will be rejoining you for this one. It’ll be a straight-up enter-and-clear. Are you up to it?”
I sighed and looked over at Tailor. He nodded at me, ever so slightly. “What’s the plan, sir?” I asked after a moment. Tailor and I listened as Gordon went over the plan. He droned on for a long time. The man sure liked listening to himself talk. He asked us if we had any questions.
“When do we roll on this?” I asked.
“In the next few days,” Gordon said. “Word will be sent down soon, so be ready to go on short notice. Anyway, gentlemen, I need to get going.” Gordon stood up. Tailor and I followed suit. Gordon shook my hand vigorously, squeezing tightly, then did the same to Tailor. He then nodded at Anders, and the two of them strode out of the room.
“You heard the man, boys,” Hunter said after Gordon was out of earshot. “Be ready. The order to move will come down without much warning. You’re going to be operating at a high tempo for the time being. I need you boys to stay sharp. No alcohol, no sneaking off, nothing that will slow you down, until further notice. Tailor, I need you and Valentine to plan your routes to and from the target building, including contingency plans. I trust things will go smoother this time?”
“It would’ve went smoother if we’d had some backup,” Tailor said.
Hunter shook his head. “Gordon had the rest of your chalk on a wild goose chase. We sent a dozen men to hit a building, and no one was even home. Complete waste of time, unlike your next job, where I can promise you’ll have a target-rich environment.”
“Roger that, Colonel,” Tailor said.
“Outstanding.” Hunter turned to the medic. “Hal, you’re coming with me. Singer’s chalk is coming back from a mission tonight, and they’ve got some injuries. The doctor could use your help.”
Hal nodded and began to pack up his jump bag. “Valentine, make sure you change that bandage in the morning,” he told me. “I’ll check you out when you get back to the fort.”
“Sarah, do you want to come back to the compound tonight, or do you want to come back tomorrow?” Hunter asked.
“I, uh, need to pack my stuff, Colonel,” Sarah said, seemingly surprised by the question.
“That’s fine,” Hunter said. “You can ride back to the fort in the car that brings Hudson and Wheeler here. Let’s go, Conrad,” he said, addressing his security escort. It was the first time I’d heard him name one of his bodyguards.
After a few moments, Hal finished packing up his bag and shouldered it. With that, Hunter, his security, and the medic left, leaving the three of us alone in the big house. Sarah flopped down on the couch where Gordon had been sitting.
“This isn’t looking as good now,” I said after a long moment.
“At least we’ll have full chalk this time,” Tailor said. “What happened today was bullshit.”
“What are you going to do?” Sarah asked.
“What can we do?” I said. “We’re going to do the mission and hope we don’t get killed.”
“I don’t know about y’all, but I’m going to bed,” Tailor said, standing up. Without another word, he disappeared up the stairs, leaving Sarah and me alone in the dimly lit living room. I stood up and sat down next to her on the couch. The metal folding chair was making my butt hurt, and I was still sore from the crash.
“Where’d you get the tattoo?” she asked, breaking the awkward silence after a few moments. She’d seen it while I’d had my shirt off. “Were you in the military?”
“Air Force.”
“Really? Me, too. What did you do?”
“Security Forces. You?”
“Radio Communications Systems. I cross-trained as a Cryptologic Linguist after four years. Did three years of that after a year at the DLA,” Sarah said, referring to the Defense Language Academy in California.
“So that’s how you speak Arabic,” I said. Sarah nodded. “Hell, I was all proud of myself for learning Spanish. And I only did that after all the time I spent in Central America.”
“In the Air Force?”
“Uh, no. I was in Afghanistan for six months, but I got out after that. I was hired by, um, a contractor, after that.”
“You did construction?”
“No, not that kind of contractor. I worked for Vanguard.”
Everyone had heard of Vanguard. We’d been in the news a lot last year. “You were a mercenary?” she asked incredulously.
“Basically,” I said. “Tailor hooked me up here. How ’bout you?”
“I . . . This is embarrassing, but I ran into some financial problems. I had this boyfriend that . . . well, he was an asshole. Basically, he spent all of my money, ran up my credit cards, stuff like that. He got into drugs. I tried to help him. Before it was over, my credit was ruined. The cops arrested him, found his cocaine in my apartment. I lost my security clearance. My career was over. I got out last year. There’s plenty of work out there for people with my background. Almost none for people who can’t get a clearance, though.”
“So how’d you end up here?”
“I was living in a crappy apartment, working a crappy job, when I was contacted with this offer. How could I refuse? A chance to go do something again, to use the skills I learned.”
“And make a pile of money while you’re at it,” I suggested.
“Obviously,” she said, smiling again. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. You’re easy to talk to. So, where’d you get the tattoo?”
“What? Oh. I got it in Nevada.” I turned toward her and rolled up my left sleeve, showing her the tattoo on my shoulder. It was a skull clutching a switchblade knife in its teeth. It had the words “Abandon All Hope” written around it. “It was after we got back from Bosnia. This is the Switchblade logo.”
“Switchblade?” Sarah asked. “Didn’t you just say you worked for Vanguard?”
“Vanguard Strategic Solutions International,” I said. “But the Switchblade teams were the best the company had. We were the lifers. Most guys worked short-term contracts, six months to two years. A few of us stayed full-time. We got better training, better benefits, better equipment, and much better pay.”
“Sounds good,” Sarah said, sounding unconvinced.
“It was dangerous as hell,” I said honestly. “But my team was lucky. We did really well. Then Mexico happened.”
“You were there?” Sarah asked. “During the fighting, I mean?”
“You could say that. Our last mission was an absolute clusterfuck. We lost . . .” I trailed off for a second. “Well, we lost damn near everybody. Our chopper was shot down in Cancun, and the UN came after us.”
“Wait, what? Why?”
I paused for a moment. “It’s . . . complicated.”
It must have been obvious I didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “How are you feeling? You had a pretty rough night tonight.” She lightly placed her hand on my leg.
“I’m . . .fine,” I said, my heart rate suddenly increasing.
“I was worried about you.” She didn’t break eye contact.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot. I got lucky. This will heal up okay. It’ll just be another scar,” I answered, obviously full of shit.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Tough Guy,” she said, that devilish grin appearing on her face again. A moment later, the smile faded. She stared into my eyes for what seemed like a long time, her mouth open slightly. “Hi,” she said, leaning in a little bit closer. The tone in her voice was ever-so-slightly different now. Then she leaned forward and kissed me, hard.
“Sarah, I—”
“Just relax,” she whispered, her mouth inches from mine. “It’ll be fun. I promise.” This had all come out of nowhere. I was so dense about stuff like this and was never much of a ladies’ man. I wasn’t sure what to do. But as Sarah pushed me back onto the couch and climbed on top of me, it became pretty clear what she wanted to do. I wasn’t about to argue.
“He looks kinda like a galinha when he does that,” Carl said from the kitchen table. Then he moved his head back and forth, except Carl had no rhythm to speak of, and no neck, either, so it was more like he moved his face back and forth in a very poor imitation of the scarecrow-like Reaper.
“He does have that chicken vibe going on,” I replied as I moved the ice pack to a different spot on my face. That airbag had really clocked me. As soon as the swelling went down enough, I was going to go shave. The police were already looking to question Khalid about today’s events. Too bad he no longer existed.
“I can still hear you guys,” Reaper said without looking up from his multiple screens. He had been engrossed in those since we had gotten back.
“How?” I asked incredulously. I could hear the metal coming out of his earpieces from across the room. That mystery was going to go unanswered as Reaper suddenly pumped his fist in the air.
“Cracked it!”
Thank goodness. This was big, but I had faith that Reaper could do it. “Well, that’s a little anticlimactic,” I said. Carl grunted in agreement and popped open another beer. It wasn’t that you couldn’t get alcohol in Muslim countries; you just had to know where to look. “Me crashing a hundred-thousand Euro car was way cooler.”
Reaper yanked out the earpieces. “I’m in. I’ve got everything. His password protection was pathetic. I own you punk-ass bitch! Ha!” he shouted like he had just won a multiplayer death match rather than broken into a terrorist financier’s personal files.
I approached and stood over Reaper’s shoulder. “Look for anything on Adar. We need his contact info. If it isn’t under Adar, look for the Butcher. It’s time for Al Falah to call his pet psycho home.”
***
I called the Fat Man at the number provided in the folder from Thailand. I’d already had Reaper take a shot at figuring out where it originated, but it was even more secure than my personal communications, bounced off of who knew how many satellites and scrambled in every way imaginable.
The Fat Man knew who it was before I even spoke. “Hello, Mr. Lorenzo. How goes it?”
“Phase One is complete. We’ve implemented Phase Two,” I said.
“I shall pass that on to our employer. We had heard that there had been a few complications.” His voice was without inflection. He wouldn’t even give me a clue if he had just woken up or if it was late at night. Nobody even knew what time zone Big Eddie was in. “Nothing you couldn’t handle, I assume.”
“Of course not.”
“By the way, some of our men attended your niece’s dance recital. Rachel, I believe her name was. Let’s see, she belongs to your brother, Robert. They recorded the recital for Big Eddie. He commented that she is very graceful and talented for such a young girl.”
“I told you. I’ll do the job,” I stated.
“Of course you will. Eddie just likes to keep track of his employees. It is what makes him such an effective leader. Keep up the good work.” Then he hung up. I carefully put my phone away before smashing my fist into the wall.