Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

The boat was in motion when he looked at it again, and the Boatman was rowing away with a slow rhythm. Swanson brought Excalibur to his shoulder, locked into a standing position to shoot. He centered the scope on the head of the Boatman and pulled the trigger, sending out a heavy.50 caliber bullet that delivered a powerful kick to his shoulder. The cloth covering the Boatman’s head flicked as the bullet passed through.

A bark of laughter came back loud and clear and strong. “Yes! We have a fair bargain. You get half and I get half. You may keep your friend, but you may not like what you get!” The boat and its dreadful captain vanished. Black rain dripped from Kyle’s helmet and raw ash flew in his face. He sneezed.

K YLE TOPPLED TO THEcarpeted floor of the hotel room when his legs collapsed. Delara rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him. His muscles shivered in iron-tight spasms and his eyes opened and rolled back momentarily, then the lids closed again. Over the years, he had developed a habit of finding a quiet time after significant battles to let his mind process the carnage he had wrought, and the Boatman often paddled in for a talk during those moments.

The shaking eased away and his breathing steadied. The Boatman accused him of being a mass murderer and Swanson had yelled back in the silence of their private world, shouting that it was bullshit. He was no psychotic maniac, no serial killer with a placid exterior, for he took no pleasure in killing. Somebody had to do what was necessary in these times of desperation and Kyle Swanson happened to be talented in that unique line of work.

“I am no murderer,” he said, just loud enough for Delara to hear him, and then he slept.

He finally awoke two hours later when the first rays of the new day came through the window. The fog was gone and there was no Boatman, no mushroom clouds, but it had been more than a dream.

He was warm beneath the down blanket with Delara asleep beside him on the carpet, her arm thrown protectively across his chest, her soft breasts against his side and her legs resting against his. Her breath was warm on his neck. Kyle Swanson kissed her lightly on the top of her head, closed his eyes again, and decided not to move.

Another ten minutes and then they had to get back to the clinic before Jeff was prepped for surgery. Just ten minutes. Was that too much to ask? Yes. It was too much, for now there was something else. He was still putting things together, the real world and the fantasy, the nuclear weapons of the Saudis and the Boatman’s mushroom clouds. Even in his sleep he had been thinking about the new and dangerous situation that was brewing in the ever volatile Middle East.

Sir Jeff had floated in and out of consciousness and the effects of the medication and fought to stay coherent in order to fill out the story for him. The accountants and analysts of Excalibur Enterprises, which had expanded to include an intelligence-gathering branch for major corporations, had found strange discrepancies among engineering contracts in Saudi Arabia. Jeff decided to follow the trail and had bribed and threatened enough sources to put it all together. The Saudis had spent years and millions of dollars to secretly purchase the components necessary to build a small nuclear arsenal, avoiding any sign of launching a production program that would have drawn international scrutiny. The huge expenditures and assignments had been easily masked within the massive construction and infrastructure projects that were constantly underway throughout the kingdom.

Against impossible odds, they had five special missiles that were now operational. Jeff told him that he was sure of the location of only one of the weapons, at a small Saudi army base in the oil patch city of al-Khobz on the Arabian Gulf. Khobz and its giant port was a natural invasion point for any enemy military force, as had been proven when Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein sent his troops over from Kuwait during Gulf War One. A defensive nuke missile system could plug that hole nicely, but Kyle realized that it could just as easily become an offensive weapon that could maim an entire American naval battle group.

The information had staggered Kyle: A country facing possible revolution had a secret arsenal of nuclear weapons. As Jeff faded back into a sedated sleep, Swanson found Sybelle Summers and brought her up to speed on the revelation.

Using her FBI creds, Sybelle got a ride aboard a police helicopter all the way to the landing pad at the U.S. Embassy in London. Once in a secure room, she drafted a FLASH message to the Lizard back at Trident headquarters in Washington. General Middleton, she thought while writing the explosive memo, was going to have a cow when he read this. He would take it immediately to General Turner and President Tracy.

N INE MORE MINUTES OFrest, with Delara in his arms. Swanson thought of the immense potential for catastrophe that would soon be exposed, forcing untold actions and reactions. Ten minutes might be all that he had left. It might be all any of them had left.

AL-KHOBZ, SAUDI ARABIA

R ISHA AL- H ARBI AND HERbest friends, Hanaa and Taja, were rocking at the mall. The three teenagers wore identical flowing black abayas that covered them from their shoulders to their feet. It was above the shoulders where their conservative nation’s customs could be bent a bit, and the girls had colorful scarves over their heads and had spent hours applying makeup to their eyes while shaping and polishing their nails, the only parts of their bodies that were visible. They were total social rebels.

Risha was the worst offender. Beneath her cumbersome and tent-like abaya, she even wore pink sneakers, pink socks, a T-shirt, and a short denim skirt. Her crimson nails flashed with flecks of gold.

“He is so cute!” Hanaa checked out the picture of a boy on Risha’s cell phone, a strong and smiling youngster with a thick mop of black hair and piercing eyes. She passed it to Taja.

“I cannot believe that you really called him,” said Taja. “Why do you do these things, Risha? We get numbered all the time, but I would never actually call a boy. My family would freak.”

“I have never actually spoken to him. We just text,” Risha argued. “What’s the harm? It’s not like we’re mingling or anything.” A tune from the latest boy band pounded through the iPod ear buds beneath her pink scarf and she nodded with the rhythm. The slang language of the West came easily to them because of their access to cell phones and satellite television. They were even more technologically advanced than the earlier Saudi girls of the Oprah generation. They were connected!

“That picture is a lot more than just being texted,” Taja warned. She lifted her full niqab veil, sipped some mocha frappachino, and wiped foam from her lips. Even the Starbucks at the Khobz Mall could be a dangerous place for girls. “Erase that picture. Please. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

“What’s his name?” asked Hanaa.

“Gabir,” replied Risha as she theatrically hugged the portable cell phone to her body.

“Please tell me that you did not give him your real name!” Hanaa’s eyes were wide. The risk that her friend was taking was incredible.

“Yes. Of course. He loves me!”

Both of her shocked friends laughed nervously. Hanaa said, “This boy, your dreamy Gabir, did not even know you existed until two days ago! He and his friends spotted you coming out of this mall and when we got into your father’s Mercedes limo, they followed us. I remember them blaring their horns and cutting around in their cars and holding out cardboard signs with their telephone numbers. You actually checked them out while I was screaming in terror.”