Andrew Britton: The Assassin

Harper shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think he’s the right man for this.”

The president did not respond. Instead, he assumed a neutral expression and motioned for Harper to continue.

“For most things, I’d put him out there in a heartbeat. But not in this case. There’s too much riding on it, and lately, he’s been… taking chances.”

Brenneman furrowed his brow. “I know he got hurt. Is that the problem? Because if that’s an issue…”

“Physically, there’s nothing wrong with him. That’s not what concerns me.”

Another aching silence. “Look, John, I appreciate your honesty. At the same time, you brought him back to the Agency for a reason. Unless you can point to something specific, we need him on this. I need him on this.”

Reluctantly, Harper nodded. Brenneman glanced at his watch and stood, ending the conversation. As the other man got to his feet and started toward the door, the president’s voice brought him to a halt.

“This will not pass, John. Find your man, and bring him up to speed. I want to know who was responsible, and soon.”

FALLUJAH

Adirty gray dawn was just beginning to lift as a helicopter beat a steady path east from the Habbaniyah air base, a small facility located 80 kilometers west of Baghdad. The Soviet-designed aircraft, now passing over the Euphrates River valley, had been used by both Taliban and Northern Alliance forces during the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan. Since the enemy on the ground had been reluctant to open fire for fear of engaging their own commanders, the Mi-17 had been adopted by the CIA as a preferred means of travel in the region. Its popularity had begun to fade in recent months, as its role in the American fleet was becoming a well-known fact in all the wrong circles, but it still offered better protection than some of the Agency’s more conspicuous aircraft.

From his seat just aft of the cockpit, Mark Walland peered through a grimy window on the starboard side as the outskirts of Fallujah appeared through scattered clouds, revealing broken walls of pale stone and low-slung cinder block homes. Although the view was far from scenic, Walland knew that things would look much worse on the ground. He wasn’t looking forward to going down there, but it seemed as if he had been doing just that — heading into harm’s way — for the better part of his short career.

Like the men in the cockpit, Walland was attached to the Special Activities Division, the Agency’s elite paramilitary force. He was short but well built, with dark, restless eyes set deep in a sunburnt face. His light brown hair was trimmed close, which put it at odds with the thick beard he had grown over the past few months. Walland had joined the CIA following his departure from the army three years earlier, at the surprisingly young age of twenty-seven. He’d seen plenty of action as a captain in the 82nd Airborne Division, particularly in the mountains of Afghanistan. Still, the former Ranger knew that his experience was nothing compared to that of the individual who was seated directly across from him, on the other side of the wide, empty aisle.

Walland had been working on and off with Ryan Kealey for the past six months, yet the man remained a mystery. He’d heard a few things, of course, brief snatches of conversation caught during his time at the forward operating bases to the east. Mostly, they were rumors with respect to Kealey’s military record: his time with the 3rd Special Forces Group, his role in the death of a senior Islamic militant in Syria, the two lost years during which his name had been placed on the Security Roster, the army’s list of covert operators. Walland knew something of his recent work as well; Kealey’s role in the prevention of a major terrorist attack the previous year was too big to have been covered up entirely, despite the best efforts of the operations directorate. For the most part, however, the man — and his past — remained a closed book.

The young operative broke from his thoughts as the airframe shuddered, the engines flaring as the pilot applied the aft cyclic. The helicopter dropped through the clouds with startling speed, the wheels bouncing once, then settling into the dirt a moment later. Walland stripped off his in-flight headset and saw Kealey do the same. The side door was pulled open after a few seconds, and they jumped down from the elevated fuselage, shielding their eyes from the rotor wash as they hurried toward the waiting vehicles.

The dust began to clear as they approached, revealing half a dozen soldiers in civilian clothes and three battered Toyota pickups. The soldiers were spread out in a loose perimeter around the vehicles, which were parked next to the train station, a low-slung building marked by bullet holes and large areas of blackened cement. Located just north of the city, the station had been carefully selected for its value as a defensive position and its proximity to the meeting point. Kealey adjusted his load as he waited for Walland to catch up, slinging his AK-74M over his shoulder so that the black plastic grip of the rifle dangled a mere few inches from his right hand. When Walland appeared at his side, they walked over to the lead Tacoma. A lanky, dark-haired individual was leaning against the passenger-side fender. He straightened as they approached.

“Good to see you, Ryan,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

Kealey took the proffered hand. “You’re right about that, Paul. It’s good to see you, too.” He gestured to Walland and made the introductions. The two men shook hands in turn.

Paul Owen was an army officer based out of Camp Fallujah, the marine base located fifteen miles east of the city. As a lieutenant colonel in the 1st SFOD-D, he’d been one of Kealey’s commanding officers during the younger man’s time at Fort Bragg. Due to the peculiar relationship between the CIA and the Special Forces community, the thirty-three-year-old Kealey now more or less shared command with the man who had once been his superior officer. On the ride east from Habbaniyah, Kealey had wondered, with some trepidation, about how this turn of events might play out, but his fears were soon abated. With the introductions out of the way, Owen turned back to him and said, “So, how exactly do you want to handle this?”

“What have you been told?”

“The bare minimum. We have a location and a guarantee of safe passage on your end. At least, that’s what you said when you called to set this up.”

“And that still holds.” He caught the Delta officer’s skeptical expression. “Look, Paul, we’ve dealt with this guy before. It’s in his best interest to get us in and out of there without an incident. He definitely has the influence; he could probably lock down the entire district if he wanted to.”

Owen nodded in reluctant agreement. “Fair enough. I’ve heard the same thing. How long will it take?”

“About ten minutes.” Kealey slapped the hand guard of his weapon. “I’ll be leaving this with you. They’ll disarm me when I go in, anyway.”

“Okay. You said you had some imagery for me.”

Kealey was carrying a black Jansport backpack in addition to his rifle. Shrugging the pack off his shoulders, he unzipped the front compartment and extracted a thin manila folder. The folder was placed on the warm hood of the first Tacoma, and the contents withdrawn. Both Owen and Walland leaned in for a closer look.

“These shots were taken when we first set up shop in Fallujah,” Kealey explained. “Two years ago this guy was low priority, and nothing’s really changed in that department. The DO was never able to justify satellite imagery, so all we have are digital shots from the air.”

Selecting one of the closer shots, he pointed out a squat, duncolored two-story structure. “This is it. I know it looks like every other house on the street, but they’ll have armed guards posted outside and possibly in the buildings across the road.” He fixed Owen with a serious look. “Tell your men to watch how they handle their weapons. These guys will be jumpy, and I don’t want any accidents.”