Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

She had already made up her mind. “I am now the only remaining member of my family,” she said. “Everyone has been murdered by the government and its brutes, because we were part of the educated, moderate class. I will tell you everything I can in exchange for political asylum. I know that if I return to Iran, I may be killed, but we must go back.”

“Why?” asked an interrogator.

“I know of another facility, such as the one from last night, and my brother may still be alive there.”

“Just tell us where and we will send in another team.”

She shook her head negatively. “No. It is near my home village in the north, and I can lead you there. You cannot find it on your own.”

The officer gave her a slight smile. “Believe me, Miss Tabrizi, when I say that our technology and satellites can find almost anything, anywhere.”

Delara returned the mirthless smile. “So, have you found it yet? No. You didn’t even know it existed until I just told you.”

The officer studied the young woman. Stubborn. Determined. Knows that if she is caught by the Iranians, she will be killed, and yet she is willing to lead a raid back into the country. “Let me discuss it with my bosses and see if they want to put together a mission. Meanwhile, we will put you up in a safe location and let you rest and clean up while we work this out.”

Delara said, “I want the same team that was used before.”

“We may not be able to do that. A fully capable and fresh team probably will be chosen.”

“No substitutes,” she insisted and turned to look at Rawls and Hughes, both of whom were nodding agreement. She remembered not only the rescue in Iran but also the confrontation at the helicopter. “I trust these men to bring me back alive.”

In another room in the same building, Kyle Swanson and Rick Newman were being debriefed, going over the mission step by step. Swanson handed in the bag of flesh samples he had cut from the dead body, and it was transferred to a secure biohazard container. The digital cameras with their documentation were sent off to be copied and analyzed.

“The place was burned to a crisp,” he told the intel officers. He described the construction of the underground laboratory complex. “Everything was destroyed. Looked as if they flooded it with gasoline or something, then popped some thermite grenades to set it all off. The heat would have been tremendous, certainly enough to burn off any evidence of chemicals or biologicals being produced there.”

“You found prisoners in there?”

“What remained of them. Way back in individual cells at the end of the tunnels. The poor bastards were probably guinea pigs for experiments and were disposed of like everything else.”

Newman described the sudden arrival of soldiers at the site and the ensuing ambush, and how Master Gunny Dawkins had been wounded. Swanson gave his version of the same subjects. The intelligence officers were running out of questions when one asked, “Why do you think the scientist who was assassinated in Baghdad gave up this site?”

Kyle gathered his gear. “That’s for you intel guys to figure out. Maybe the girl that we brought in can shed some light on it. My wild guess is that the scientist figured that everything connected with the place was going to be eliminated, including him. So he ran. He just didn’t run fast enough.”

PARIS

L EAFY VINES TANGLED LIKEthick ropes around the bars of a big wrought-iron gate that had stood open day and night for almost ten years on a quiet street in the Nineteenth Arrondissement. The property owner had tired of having to open and close it. Thieves came over the walls, despite embedded shards of sharp glass and alarm systems, so what was the point? Then a new owner had arrived and there still was no need to close the gate, for hard-eyed men stood guard, and word spread among the footpads of Paris that it was better to prey on targets that would not cost them their lives. The house now belonged to al Qaeda.

The neighborhood in the northeast section of Paris was in an inevitable transition toward a gentrified future, but pockets of the past still existed in its multiethnic heritage. The mixed aromas of foreign food and spices wafted from the restaurants, and people of all nationalities moved through the streets. Juba was just another face.

Shadowed by the foliage of the gate, he entered the old courtyard and smelled the combined scent of flowers and rot. The concrete slabs of the parking area were uneven, buckled by a century of shifting earth, and a creamy white Mercedes was parked in the center. Juba brushed his hand across the hood as he walked by. Warm to the touch, so the vehicle was recently used, probably to deliver Saladin to the meeting at the three-story home.

A nervous young man with a ragged haircut over a thin hyena face stepped from the shade of the doorway and motioned Juba to stop. The visitor was expected but would be searched nevertheless. Juba obediently raised both arms, then very slowly lowered his left hand to open his Prada sport coat wide enough to show the guard the holstered pistol that rested on his left hip. The young man’s eyes went to the gun, which would have to be removed before the visitor could go inside. Juba helpfully opened the coat a bit more, using the diversion to keep the man’s attention away from his right arm, which was slowly extending all the way up. When the elbow locked straight, a mechanism strapped to the inside of his forearm was tripped and a small Ruger pistol and silencer slapped into Juba’s palm. He shot the approaching guard twice in the head at a distance of only three feet, the blood and brain matter spraying backward onto the paving stones. Juba grabbed the bleeding corpse by the shirt and hauled it into the cool, dark space beneath the stairwell.

He checked his clothes to make sure no blood had spattered on him and then trotted up the steep, curving stone staircase, making plenty of noise so the second bodyguard knew he was coming. His feet slapped with a steady rhythm against the old stones that a scrubwoman had washed by hand that morning. As he neared the top, the gun was hidden at his side. He huffed a bit, as if panting, and called to the guard. “Long way up,” he said in French. This man was larger, standing with his hands crossed in front of him. He had a lot of bulk that was more fat than muscle. A thick unibrow stretched in a line across both eyes, and a few gold teeth glinted on the left side of a frowning mouth. A ragged scar ran down his forehead. He was not alert because the visitor had been cleared by the entryway guard. Juba came up the final few steps, raised the Ruger, and fired his last three bullets. The scowling man collapsed where he stood.

Juba put the little gun away and gave the fallen man a look of utter contempt. They still do not train them well . The bodyguards chosen to protect the head of the entire al Qaeda operation in France should have been the best combat veterans available instead of a couple of waterfront thugs hired because they looked mean and could handle themselves in a barroom brawl. Both died because they were stupid. He stepped inside the house.

The door opened into an area between a neat kitchen that was the color of buttermilk and a living room where tall windows gave a view of other courtyards and buildings on this crowded edge of the city. The fading sunlight was orange and bright. He blinked. As his eyes adjusted, two silhouettes in the living room became a pair of middle-aged men seated in comfortable chairs directly across from each other, separated by a low table.

“My son! Welcome, welcome,” said one, rising and coming to greet him with hugs and traditional cheek kisses.

Juba bowed his head. “Father. It is good to see you again.” He had not seen his spiritual father, the man known as Saladin, in six weeks and was pleased to find him smiling with a warm greeting, particularly under the circumstances. Al Qaeda was demanding that he hand over the formula, and that Juba deliver it in person. Both of them realized their lives would be worthless the moment that the details of the new and virulent nerve agent were out of their possession, so that could not be allowed to happen.