Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

From the tone of Mike’s voice, Drake knew his friend understood what he was saying.

“Nothing I’d like better. Varmints, you say. What would you like me to bring along for this little outing? I have an M24A2 I picked up from one of our old friends. Will that do?”

The M24A2 was an improved version of the M24 sniper weapon system Mike had used in Delta Force. With a detachable 10-round magazine and barrel modifications to accommodate a sound suppressor, the rifle had proven itself in Afghanistan and elsewhere.

“If you think you can hit anything with it, bring it along. We might get to do some hunting at night, so if you have any of those special binoculars or scopes, they might come in handy as well,” Drake suggested.

“Can do. When do you plan on having this here soiree?”

“Tomorrow night,” Drake said, and listened patiently for his friend to calculate the domestic damage his request was sure to cause.

“Tomorrow night, huh,” Mike repeated. “If I’m able to make arrangements for this adventure, when would I be able to get back to burning burgers?”

“If your kids like burned burgers for breakfast, I’d say sometime Monday morning. Is that soon enough?”

“A man ought to be able to get out of the house once in a while. It’ll just have to be. Do me a favor, go out and buy a box of chocolates I can take back to my wife. I’d like to have a bed to sleep in when I get back,” Mike chuckled.

Drake put the phone back in its cradle and swiveled his chair around to look out over the marina below. Weekend boaters were moving up and down the river. He’d accomplished as much as he could for the day, it was time to go home and get some work done on the farm. Get on his old, red Massey Ferguson tractor and pull out another row of the dead grape vines left to rot by the previous owner. The work would help his mind settle into a planning mode for tomorrow night’s soiree, as Mike called it.

It was an hour before sunset when Barak felt the nose of the Gulfstream dip. The white snowcap on Mount Hood glowed pastel pink out the window as the plane banked to the left. When it straightened out for the runway below, Barak could see the nearby Columbia River off to the right. Pretty country, he thought, just the right place to teach America how ugly war is.

He had regional training facilities like this one in four other areas around the country. They were all legitimate training centers and respected members of their local business communities. They also secretly served as quarters for the finest assassins assembled under one banner in a thousand years. With ISIS offices around the globe, there wasn’t a person of significance anywhere in the world he couldn’t reach.

After twenty years, he had created a privately-held corporation worth a hundred times the twenty-five million he’d been given. His resources were as great as the armies of half the countries in the world. The best arms and munitions, a fleet of private jets, armored vehicles, state-of-the-art communication systems, his company had it all. But his plan didn’t rely on any of that.

One dedicated, well-trained assassin was all he needed to terrorize any nation he wanted. Blow up fifty people in a shopping mall and America would mourn for only a moment, just as Israel had learned to do. But kill the leaders and icons of a nation, and the white flag of surrender would be raised before the first funeral was held.

When his plane rolled to a stop at the west end of the runway, Barak saw that Kaamil and Roberto Valencia were standing next to one of the company’s black Suburbans. The sprawling ranch house he stayed in whenever he visited was only a short walk away, but he appreciated the respect their attention provided him.

“Kaamil, Roberto, I hope you have good news for me. Bad news spoils my appetite, and right now I am very hungry,” he said, as he stepped out of the plane. “Come, let’s relax and eat, you can tell me of your progress.”

When he was in the Suburban beside Kaamil, he remained silent. The silence would serve as fertile ground for nervousness to grow, which is what he intended. Kaamil had made mistakes, and he needed to know if there had been more. Calm men can tell lies, but men who are afraid tell you the truth. Both Kaamil and Roberto were afraid of him because he gave them reason to be. On separate occasions, in front of each of them, he’d shot one of their men for a mistake the man had made. Neither of them had the courage to tell him their men weren’t responsible for the mistakes.

Of his training facilities spread throughout America, this ranch was his favorite. The mighty river and the vast gorge it ran through were spectacular. Something about the majestic mountain that seemed to hover over the ranch made him relax. It would be a pity if he could no longer come here, he thought.

After Kaamil pulled up in front of the ranch house, Barak led them in past the massive river rock fireplace to the game room. He called it the game room because it had a bar, a small fireplace, leather chairs and a poker table. The scent of good cigars permeated the knotty pine paneling. It was easy to imagine neighboring ranchers sitting around the poker table drinking whiskey and swapping tales. It was the only room in the ranch house he hadn’t remodeled.

Barak took a new bottle of Herradura Anejo tequila off the shelf behind the bar and poured two fingers in each of three crystal tumblers he set on the bar.

“Join me, gentlemen, in a toast to our success. While we eat, you will tell me what a fantastic job you are doing. But allow me to relax a little first.”

He saw that both men were still nervous, Roberto more than Kaamil.

“So, Roberto, how are you finding life in this little paradise by the river? Have you found the women here satisfactory?” he asked. He knew from his investigation of the man that young girls were his weakness.

“Girls seem surprised when the goods they offer find a taker,” Roberto said, with a small smile. “They wear cut-offs and bikini tops everywhere. It’s like going to market. The shopping has been good.”

“And how is your father’s business doing? Is he still number one in the Northwest?”

“Don Malik, I can assure you we are. The old warehouse you lease us down by the river has worked out well. We hide our product in the farm materials and supplies we ship out of there. None of our shipments have been intercepted. My father asked me to thank you for your assistance,” Roberto answered.

“I am glad to hear it. Tell your father, I look forward to working with him on the matters we discussed. Kaamil, how are you doing? Are you having the same success as Roberto with the ladies?” Barak asked, more for Roberto’s benefit than any real interest in Kaamil’s love life. Kaamil preferred prostitutes and, while there were several favorites, he was discreet and careful in that respect.

“I’m not complaining. Women are sometimes necessary, but who could keep up with Roberto,” Kaamil said with a shrug.

“Well then, let’s go see if our chef is ready for us. Leave your drinks here. We’ll have some wine with our meal.”

Barak led them to the dining room, where a platter of steaks sizzled next to a large bowl of mashed potatoes and a Caesar salad on the table. A decanter of red wine sat in front of Barak’s plate, and the chef stood with his chair pulled out. When he had tasted the wine, he dismissed the chef with a wave of his hand.

“Now, gentlemen, I want to hear about each of your assignments,” he said, as he forked a large steak onto his plate and waited for the bowl of mashed potatoes to be handed to him.

Kaamil went first. “The men are prepared and know what to do. We have trained for two years, the last two months in the mock-up of the Emergency Center. They are proficient with their weapons and anxious to fight. You’ll see when you meet them.”