Cliff Ryder - Aim And Fire

“Alpha, turn the volume on your phone to maximum and set it down in front of the doors and go around the side.

Incapacitate your target when he comes out,” Kate ordered.

She watched Lashti adjust the controls on his lifeline to her and set the phone on the rough, stony ground, then walk around the corner of the shed, his pistol drawn, but held by the slide and barrel instead of the grip.

God, I hope this works, Kate thought as she played the sound file, broadcasting it over the phone. Several excru-tiating seconds later—even the state-of-the-art satellites could only transmit so fast—the low tones of Alexei Kryukov’s voice growled out from the phone’s speaker.

“Dmitri, come out here!” The Russian’s order was a bit choppy, because the hacker had cut the words from other conversations and strung them together in one file, but it should have been enough to attract the guard’s attention.

The only problem is that it might also bring those other two running, Kate thought.

Nothing happened for several seconds. The door remained firmly shut. Kate sent the wave file again, the lag time just enough that it seemed the person outside had been waiting for a response. The two men were only ten yards away now, and Kate realized they had coordinated their sweep to end up back at the SUV. If the driver didn’t bite soon, Lashti would be stuck with the three of them.

She heard a scrape of wood on wood, and one of the doors swung inward. Peering around the corner with her operative, they both saw a man’s dark form stroll out, a crooked cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Alexei, where the hell are you?” In the rectangle of light from the shed, he noticed the phone on the ground and walked over to pick it up, his free hand slipping underneath his coat.

With three large, noiseless steps, Lashti crept up and brought the butt of his pistol down hard on the back of the other man’s head, smashing him to the street. He picked up his phone, then frisked the unmoving man, coming up with a SIG Sauer 9 mm pistol, which he slipped into his pocket. “Commandeering the SUV now,” he whispered.

Kate was struck by a sudden brainstorm. “Alpha, take that man with you.”

“Already thought of it, Primary.”

Kate watched as he dragged the unconscious body inside the building, which was remarkably exhaust free.

Lashti spotted the reason why, and disconnected a hose that vented the exhaust to the outside.

“Get out of there—Kryukov’s people are less than ten yards away,” Kate said.

Securing the man’s hands behind his back with his belt, Lashti shoved him into the back of the SUV, then slipped behind the steering wheel. He eased the vehicle into gear, moving out of the shed slowly. As soon as he was free of the building, he gunned the engine, the wheels slipping on the rocks as they fought for traction. A shout echoed behind him, and Kate saw the two men running after the vehicle, shrinking in the distance as they pursued with guns drawn. They didn’t have the chance to shoot, since Lashti had quickly pulled out of range.

“Stinks in here—damn Russians, all of ’em chain-smokers. I’m going to reek like an ashtray by the time I get out of here,” Lashti said.

“Worry about the clothes later—you’re not safe yet— you still have to make it out of the town and north, across the border. That military base isn’t going to look too kindly on you if they spot you trying to leave through Kashmir,” Kate said.

“Leave that to me—after this little escapade, getting into China will be the easy part. Thanks for the assist, Primary, I appreciate it.”

“Anytime, Alpha. I’ve downloaded your route to your phone. It should avoid all of the army patrols on both sides of the border. Be careful, and you should be in China by this time tomorrow, if all goes well. Turn over your captive to our operative at the border. I’m sure he’ll be able to extract any useful information from him. Report back in when you’re clear, or if you discover something. Primary out.”

Kate disconnected the call and sent a quick note of thanks to the hacker, telling her to keep monitoring Alpha until he got out safely. She also updated Pai Kun, who promised to have people ready to get Lashti across the border.

Leaning back in her chair, Kate tried to slow her heartbeat. Although her voice had never changed from a calm, modulated tone as she had talked Lashti through his escape, her heart and mind had been racing a mile a minute, always analyzing, planning and discarding several options and variables. Oversight was a part of her job that Kate simultaneously loved and hated. She loved it for the immediate, real-time access it gave her to the operatives, and hated it for the powerless feeling she got at the same time. Every time she slipped on her headset and Web-viewing glasses or opened those windows on her touch-screen, she couldn’t help feeling that although she was a powerful force multiplier for her people, at the same time, she was sitting in plush comfort in her New York City town house while the men and women of Room 59 were out there risking their lives every day. And if they got into inescapable trouble, there was absolutely nothing she could to do to help. She had watched operatives die right in front of her, and had accepted that as part of the job. But she absolutely hated that.

This time, however, was one of the good ones, she thought. With a sigh, Kate peeled herself out of the chair she had been sitting in for hours, took off the headset and went to take a shower, hoping nothing else came up for a while so she could get some rest before conferencing with Denny Talbot about the Texas operation.

Nate kept his hat brim pulled low over his face as he drove through the Segundo Barrio in south-central El Paso. Just a hop and skip away from the border, this was the main territory of the Barrio Aztecas, the predominant Hispanic prison gang in the city. Although there were many other places he’d have rather been at one-thirty in the morning, this was the best place to find the information he needed, and right now every minute counted.

Rubbing grainy eyes, Nate drained the last of his rotgut coffee, crushed the paper cup and tossed it on the Bronco’s floor. He’d been cruising the streets for several hours, shaking down his contacts and confidential informants for any word about Middle Eastern men crossing the border or any other recent suspicious activity. But for all his questions—and subtle threats when necessary—he had come up completely dry.

Normally he would only come here in the daytime, but he knew the clock was ticking, and he needed something solid to get this potential incident taken seriously. That feeling in his gut was growing stronger—something was going to go down, but without evidence, his hands were tied.

The sidewalks were filled with the usual denizens of the barrio—scattered gang members, streetwalkers, wandering homeless and several low riders cruising the streets.

The thump and blare of brassy music echoed off the houses and apartment buildings. He turned left on East Sixth Street, driving toward the north end of Marcos B. Armijo Park, which he would definitely not enter at this time of night. At Ochoa, he turned right and continued down until it ended, with a small cul-de-sac to his right and the street continuing off to his left. Small clusters of Mexicans sat on the porches of several houses along the street, and a few dozen yards away a train rumbled past on tracks running parallel to the border.

Nate took a deep breath and made sure his pistol was near to hand, arranging the tail of his long-sleeved shirt to cover it. The vatos had sentries watching out for trouble, be it a rival gang or the police, and he figured he’d been made already, but he knew the leader of the Aztecas did not like trouble of the “shoot first, ask questions later” kind, and would come down hard on any of their sergeants who acted up without permission. If he did get into trouble and had to shoot his way out, there was no way he’d be able to explain it. But there was no way he was going into the house across the street unarmed. He got out of the Bronco and ambled over, the multiple sets of cold eyes staring at him. The conversations among the stoop sitters had hushed at his approach, and Nate was acutely aware of the click of his boot heels on the pavement.