Murray McDonald - Critical Error

“It’s no longer a CIA operation and no longer your concern…”

Sam cut the connection. He was in no mood to get into the bullshit that Johnson was about to hit him with. His cell began to buzz but Sam ignored it as he packed up his kit and kick-started the motorbike for the perilous journey back down the trail to the main road. As he reached the road, he contemplated screwing them all and chasing down the truck. He could still catch it before it reached the border. He looked into the sky and knew that Johnson was watching him and was squirming at the thought that Sam may disobey him but Sam was a soldier and an order was an order. No matter how screwed up or how much he disagreed, orders had to be obeyed. He turned right, away from the border and back towards San Fernando. He could almost hear Johnson’s sigh of relief.

“He’s out of control.”

Johnson nodded in frustration at the statement made by his second in command. Sam and he had seldom seen eye to eye and over the last two months the tension between them had become unworkable. Sam’s world was black and white, right and wrong. Life wasn’t that simple. He exited the room and retrieved a pre-paid cell from his coat pocket. He typed a quick text and hit ‘Send’. Sam Baker was retiring.

Yuri Andriev’s phone beeped. He pressed the ‘Accept’ button and a link appeared on the screen. He clicked it and the browser opened to reveal a map. A flashing dot moved quickly across the screen. Yuri zoomed out and the dot’s progress slowed down as Yuri’s own location also appeared on the screen. His target, Sam Baker, was, as promised, less than ten miles away and heading straight towards him. It was going to be a very easy fifty grand.

Yuri screwed the suppressor onto his USP.45 pistol and waited. He preferred his work to be up-close and personal. He liked to ensure that when he put a target down, they didn’t get back up, as did his clients.

Yuri heard the motorbike pull into the parking lot. He checked his screen and the small dot flashed less than one hundred yards from where he stood. Yuri closed the phone and waited. The next time he’d need it would be to photograph Sam’s headshot. Two holes in his forehead were all the proof the client would need to release the final payment.

Sam walked towards his motel room. It really was one of the worst dumps he’d ever had the displeasure to frequent. He had stayed there for over two weeks, waiting for the ship to dock and the truck to appear, only to be stood down at the last second. He had caught God knows what from the bedding. His body was covered in bites and lumps and he had an insatiable itch in his crotch. All for nothing. He was furious. The powers that be had lost it.

Sam inserted the key and opened the door to his flea pit of a room. The only up-side was that he’d not be spending another night there. He stepped into the room and froze. The door slammed closed.

Sam wasn’t sure if the day could get any worse, when it did. The silencer pressing into the base of his skull was all the evidence he needed. There were two things to do in the situation. Panic and beg or accept your fate with some dignity. Sam was in no mood for either. Just as the silencer touched his skin, he moved, surprising Yuri who was used to the begging and acceptance routine.

The speed with which Sam calculated the situation and reacted, caught Yuri off-guard. By the time he pulled the trigger, Sam had already spun out of danger and his hand was already closing in on the large cylindrical silencer, while his other was forming a fist and making its way towards Yuri’s shocked face.

Yuri had not lasted twenty years in the business for no reason. He regained his composure and managed to evade most of Sam’s punch, knocking him only slightly off balance. As the punch landed, Yuri felt the pistol being twisted from his hand. He needed to regain the upper hand and ejected the magazine before letting go of the pistol.

As Yuri expected, Sam’s energy was focused on wrestling the pistol from his hand and suddenly releasing it, sent Sam crashing into the wall as his momentum suddenly had no force to restrain it. Yuri went for his knife as Sam threw the bulletless pistol at him and dived across the bed towards his bag.

Sam grabbed the bag and rolled into the small bathroom, flicking the door closed as he crashed against the bathtub. The door closed just in time to catch the knife that Yuri had thrown, the blade protruding three inches into Sam’s side of the door. Sam reached into his bag for his backup pistol. It wasn’t there.

Yuri had him. He had checked the room and removed all the weapons. He had even checked the bathroom and the cistern, just in case. Sam was unarmed. Yuri picked up the pistol and re-inserted the magazine. He slammed it home, ensuring Sam heard it.

Despite the powerful.45 bullets, the only sound that could be heard was the ripping of wood as Yuri systematically pumped 9 rounds into the wall and door of the bathroom. Yuri aimed carefully at various heights and angles to ensure at least two or three hits. With no cries of pain emitted from the bathroom, Yuri had to assume he had either hit Sam in the head or missed. But, looking at the placing of his shots, that did not seem likely. He raised his foot and kicked the door open, ready to deliver the final two bullets if required.

As the door swung open, the two bullets struck. Two head shots ended the battle once and for all.

Yuri fell to the floor, no mother in the world would recognize the mess left by two bullets entering the back of the head and exiting the front. Sam looked at the small rectangular window above the bath and wondered how he had managed to squeeze through such a tiny gap. It was not surprising Yuri had ruled out the prospect and in the process had become a sitting duck.

Before he left, Sam took a photo and sent it to the last number in the phone’s memory. Sam Baker had retired and Yuri Andriev had a booking on the last flight to New York and Sam was determined to make it.

Mexican — US Border

Brownsville, TX

July 2008

Hassan Al Husseini wiped his brow. The sweat was flowing freely as he inched his truck towards the border crossing. He, above all others, had been chosen for what he regarded to be one of the most important attacks in the history of the world. He would deliver, to the Zionist-loving scum, some of their own medicine, a taste of what their Israeli puppets had made him and his Palestinian brothers endure since Palestine was betrayed.

As he approached the customs official, he took a deep breath. He was aware that alarms at all border-crossings would be triggered at the slightest hint of a nuclear device. He had, however, been assured that the bomb was enclosed in a lead-lined casing and would not betray him or the cause. They had also assured him that the customs officials, particularly in the middle of the night, would be more interested in stopping illegal drugs and illegal immigrants than finding a nuclear bomb none of them were expecting.

Hassan had grown up in the Jabalia refugee camp, one of the most crowded places on earth. Over 90,000 people were crammed into an area less than 1.4km2. Located just 3km from the Israel/Gaza border, the conditions were a perfect breeding ground for Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades, the militant wing of the Hamas group. With few or no prospects, the young men of Jabalia were under constant threat from Israeli Defense Force raids and by the age of sixteen, Hassan had lost friends and family to Israeli aggression. With each Israeli incursion, the Brigades’ numbers swelled.

Hassan had always refused approaches from the Brigades. He had a future ahead of him. Excellent language skills and a keen mind for numbers had already seen him accepted into the Islamic University of Gaza’s Faculty of Engineering. His father had died young, just 41 years of age. Another symptom of the camps, life expectancy was low. With a mother and three younger siblings, the young Hassan had taken seriously the responsibility of heading the household and had planned to make something of himself and move his family out of the camps.