Brad Taylor: Enemy of Mine

Shit. It’s a booty call.

During the entire time he had cased the place, he had never seen anyone pay any attention to the house, which, of course, made sense now, since the investigator was in Beirut. He cursed his stupidity.

The boyfriend used a key and entered the home. If allowed to continue, he would find the trap the assassin had laid, and raise the alarm-before the RFID tag triggered.

Reacting without thought, the assassin exited his car and sprinted to the door. He saw the target in the distance, now close enough to identify. He had about thirty seconds. Maybe a minute if he locked the door behind him. A minute to kill the man and exit out the back of the house before the investigator inadvertently blew them all to pieces.

He entered, slammed the door, and locked it. He found the boyfriend next to the RFID reader on the kitchen counter, a bag of rose petals in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

The boyfriend shouted something in Dutch, then pointed to the RFID reader, saying something else. The assassin closed on him, grabbing the back of his head and slamming it into the counter in a blow that should have killed him outright. If not, it most certainly should have stopped the fight. Miraculously, the boyfriend rose, blinded by the blood in his face but screaming at the top of his lungs and swinging wildly.

The assassin danced back, out of reach, and picked up a vase, hearing the investigator outside. He flung the vase full-force into the head of the boyfriend. Unable to see to block the missile, the vase cracked him above the bridge of his nose and dropped him like a stone.

The assassin heard more shouting and turned to find the investigator in the foyer, raising her luggage as a weapon with both hands, the briefcase dangling off her wrist. He prepared to deflect it and continue the assault when he realized what was about to happen.

She’s going to kill us all.

He had no firm idea of the RFID’s reading range, but clearly, since he was still alive, it didn’t extend to the foyer. He was positive, though, that if she threw the luggage at him, it would turn into a much greater weapon than she planned.

He saw her wind up to heave the bag, and began running. He glanced back and saw the bag turning in the air in slow motion, the tag fluttering like confetti from the handle. He hit the large plate-glass window at the back of the room full-force, oblivious to the pain as he punched through. He crashed beyond the brick protection of the walls as he heard the initiation of his clever kill-box: a small wump , followed by a blast of fire out of the window like the late ignition of a gas grill.

He rolled around on the ground for a second, ensuring he wasn’t on fire, then rose and surveyed the damage. The outside of the house had contained the blast, but the inside, through the window, was an inferno.

No way will they be able to find anything through forensics.

He circled around to his car, milling in with the multitudes that had come to help or just watch the show. He fled the neighborhood at a leisurely pace, driving randomly for five miles before stopping and pulling out an international cell phone.

“This is Infidel. It’s done.”

Colonel Kurt Hale finished his briefing, knowing that the detailed information was overkill. The target, who they’d nicknamed “Crusty” because his hair reminded everyone of the Simpsons cartoon character Krusty the Clown, had been chosen for Omega authority on two other occasions. Nothing in Kurt’s briefing had changed from those other two attempts at taking him off the board. In fact, Crusty had become more involved in terrorist financing-and maybe stepped into an operational role. The only thing that had changed was the Oversight Council’s membership roster after the presidential election. Not a complete shuffle, but five of the thirteen members were new. It shouldn’t matter-the information should stand on its own-but Kurt had learned the hard way that individual personalities meant a great deal in Washington, DC.

As the commander of the Taskforce-a counterterrorist organization made up of the best operators from the special mission units of the Department of Defense and the National Clandestine Services of the CIA-Kurt wasn’t a voting member of the Council. Since the Taskforce operated outside the bounds of U.S. law, everything they did was incredibly sensitive, and his position was seen as too much of a conflict of interest. He agreed with the sentiment, but in this case he was afraid the Council would balk simply because they were new. Well, new and the fact that the last Taskforce action had occurred on U.S. soil-directly against their charter-and had almost made front-page news. If it had, the entire Council would have ended up in jail, their lives destroyed.

Kurt could tell they were skittish about granting him Omega, the last mission’s close call fresh in their minds. Luckily, President Warren had decided to attend this update. Theoretically, his vote carried no more weight than anyone else’s, but realistically, everyone knew it did, if for no other reason than he’d appointed everyone else on the Council.

He knows how critical this vote is. I’m giving them a softball. If they say no here, we might as well disband, because the next one will be worse.

Kurt waited for the first question. It came from President Warren, setting the tone. “So this is the same guy we were chasing when we diverted to Bosnia two years ago? The financier?”

“Yes, sir. No change to his operational profile. Still in Tunisia, and still doing bad things. The only difference is that he’s moved from Tunis to Sousse, further down the coast.”

“And no change to our operational profile?”

“No, sir. We’ve been at Sigma for the last three years. Never changed. Same cover organization, same planning considerations.”

The Taskforce called each stage of an operation a different Greek letter, starting with Alpha for the initial introduction of forces. Sigma was the last phase before Omega-authority for a takedown. The end for a terrorist.

“How can you say nothing’s changed? Tunisia went through a seizure two years ago. The government was overthrown. Another one has taken its place. Surely that matters.”

Kurt was momentarily taken aback at the attack, expecting the president to support him. Then he realized that’s exactly what the president was doing, giving him a platform to short-circuit any reason for the Council to say no.

“Well, yes, that’s a consideration, but truthfully the change of government has made this easier, not harder. Besides finding a target, the biggest problem in doing an operation in another sovereign country is penetrating that country’s own security apparatus. In this case, it’s in disarray. The public distrusts anyone in the old intelligence agencies.”

The new secretary of state, Jonathan Billings, tentatively snaked his hand in the air like he was in grade school. He’d never been in an Oversight Council meeting, and Kurt could tell he was intimidated. Maybe wishing he’d never agreed to sign the non-disclosure statement and seal his fate should something go wrong. After the troubles he’d had with the previous SECSTATE, Kurt dreaded what was going to come out of his mouth.

President Warren said, “John, you don’t need to raise your hand. What do you have?”

“Uhh…I know I’m new to the Oversight Council, but I’m wondering why we’re wasting so much time on this. Seems like an easy decision to me. Unless I’m missing something. From what I was briefed, this profile is the perfect mission. Am I missing something?”

Kurt fought to control his facial expression, keeping it neutral, waiting on a council member to confirm or refute the statement. It came from the secretary of defense, a man who’d lived through every Omega operation conducted. Not an enemy, but someone who understood the repercussions.