Dead Six (13 page)

“That’s what I figured,” I said. “So, what happens to our boy downstairs?”

“Hunter’s sending someone to come get him. I don’t know what they’re going to do with him now.”

“They’ll either make a deal with him in exchange for being a continuing source of information, or they’ll put a bullet in his brainpan and dump him in the ocean. Either way, sucks to be him.”

Sarah nodded. “His computer wasn’t even password protected, either. There’s a
lot
of information on there. Hunter was happy.”

“Heh . . . I’m glad. So, do you know what’s next?”

“His uncle. He’s the next target for you guys.”

“I figured. When?”

“Soon. Hunter said your chalk did so well that he’s giving you that mission next. We’ve got some more intel to gather, but that’s your next job. They’ll be sending me information to brief you soon.”

“Good.”

“Mike . . . I saw something else. You know, when I was digging around. They’re expecting heavy casualties for Dead Six. The operations they’re planning are high risk and are planned with minimum possible manpower.”

I sighed aloud, looking back out over the city. “Great.”

“You just be careful out there, okay?” she said quietly. She was staring at me intently. We held eye contact for a long time.

“I will,” I managed.

“What’s
up
?” Tailor said, strolling through the door onto the roof, lighting a cigarette as he went. He was unusually upbeat and had a stupid grin on his face. He paused when he realized Sarah and I were alone together. “Am I, uh, interrupting something?” he asked, cigarette in mouth.

“No, no,” Sarah said, stepping away from me. “I was just giving Valentine some info on what’s happening next.”

“We’re going after his uncle, right?” Tailor asked, referring to the captive in our basement.

“Sure are,” I answered.

The expression on Tailor’s face changed almost imperceptibly. My friend might not have been
certifiably
nuts, but he sure did enjoy this kind of thing a little too much. “
Good.
” He grinned.

Chapter 4:
Secondary Target

LORENZO

March 13

Falah had sounded nervous on the phone as he apologized for postponing our appointment due to family trouble. I played the concerned friend, even went so far as to offer my assistance, but he wouldn’t elaborate about what was wrong. It wasn’t until afterward that I got the word on the street that Falah’s favorite nephew had disappeared. The bodyguards provided by his uncle had been found shot to death, along with one of their new recruits. I’d only met the kid once. He’d struck me as another obnoxious rich kid, wannabe-terrorist asshole.

Nobody had any idea who’d taken him. It wouldn’t have surprised me if the senior Falah wasn’t waiting by the phone for the ransom call right now. There was a subset of the criminal underworld that specialized in kidnapping the kinds of targets whose parents wouldn’t involve the authorities. It was dangerous, but drug lords’ kids were especially lucrative. But I knew of most of the crews who did that kind of thing professionally, and I didn’t think any of them were operating around here.

Even the lowest of the low had families, easy targets that could be exploited for money, revenge, or leverage. Hell, I was a perfect example. Eddie had learned my real name, tracked down my family, and just like that, he owned me.

My family wouldn’t even recognize me now. My older brother, Bob, the federal agent, always the righteous, morally grounded, overachieving tough guy would certainly slap the cuffs on me himself if he had even the slightest clue about the things I’d done, and he’d probably sleep well at night afterward. But he, and all the rest, were family, and I
owed
them. They wouldn’t understand, but I was doing this for them.

In a way, I could understand Falah’s worry. Even scumbags had loved ones. I just hoped he got that shit cleared up fast so I could hurry up and kill him.

VALENTINE

Al Khor District, Safe house 4

March 20

0745

Tailor and I made our way into the basement of the safe house, having been rousted out of bed by Sarah. We were surprised to find Colonel Hunter waiting for us, flanked as always by a pair of his nondescript security men. Several chairs had been set up. A laptop sat on a small table, hooked up to a portable screen. Wheeler and Hudson had been called away a few days prior and hadn’t yet returned.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Hunter said. “I apologize for dragging you boys out of bed so early, but we’ve got work to do. We’re ready to move.”

“Are Hudson and Wheeler coming back, sir?” I asked as we sat down.

“I’m afraid not. I have them on another assignment right now. You two will be on your own. I have confidence in you.”

Tailor and I just looked at each other. Sarah’s face was a mask, but there was concern in her eyes.

Hunter turned on the big screen and began his briefing. “This is Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah. He’s a Saudi national by birth but has lived in Zubara for over ten years. He’s a wealthy, influential landowner and has connections to the Saudi royal family. He’s also a
player
.” The man pictured was short and overweight. He was wearing a traditional checkered headdress and had a thick white beard.

The picture changed. It was now a much younger Al Falah, dressed in camouflage and holding an RPD machine gun.

“This is Al Falah in 1984,” Hunter continued. “At the age of twenty-six, he dropped out of a Saudi religious university to join the jihad against the Soviets in Afghanistan. He fought with the mujahedin for two years before being wounded and returning to Saudi Arabia.”

The picture changed again. This time Al Falah was shaking hands with an all-too-familiar man, and smiling.

“We believe this picture was taken in 1997 or so. Yes, that is Osama bin Laden. As I said, Al Falah is a player. He’s very wealthy, both from his father and from his dealings in the oil and natural gas industry. He’s respected, considered pious, and has an enormous family. Though polygamy is rare in Zubara, he’s got three wives and probably nine children. He lives in a large walled compound outside of the city. Nice place—fountain, palm trees, you name it. He’s got many servants and quite a few Indonesian slave girls as well.”

Tailor and I were taking notes. Hunter told us it wasn’t necessary. Sarah handed each of us a fat manila envelope.

“Everything you need is in here,” Hunter said. “Al Falah never does anything himself. He’s always the behind-the-scenes man, the one pulling the strings and providing the funding. We believe getting shot in the ass in the ‘Stan probably led to this attitude. He raises enormous amounts of cash for various terrorist groups. He has several influential charities in Zubara, Kuwait, and the UAE that are all fronts for donating money to organizations like Hezbollah, Hamas, and Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula.”

“I’d do this one for free,” Tailor muttered under his breath.

Hunter didn’t seem to hear him. “Fortunately for us, this is one of the rare occasions where removing the man will remove the means. Al Falah does what he does through force of personality. He’s well liked and respected. He goes to Friday services at mosque . . . well,
religiously
. He always fasts during Ramadan. People are happy to do business with him. Your mission, gentlemen, is to kill Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah. You can use any means you see fit. You are to keep collateral damage to an absolute minimum to keep the Zubarans from getting antsy. You can request any equipment you wish, but no other personnel are available at this time. Failure is not an option. Any questions?”

“This is . . . wow,” I said, looking through the stack of documents.

“Welcome to Big Boy Town,” Hunter said, cracking an evil grin. “You boys were picked for this assignment because I believe you can handle it. I didn’t say it’d be easy. I’m giving you two a lot of leeway. Just get the job done. The best place to hit Al Falah is here,” Hunter said, pointing to a picture that had appeared on the screen. “This is a social club that Al Falah frequents. It’s a coffee house, or a tea house or something like that. Men go there to smoke hookahs, play chess, and shoot the shit. It’s also one of very few public places he’s regularly seen.”

“How often does he go there, sir?” Tailor asked.

“Several nights a week, usually,” Sarah said. “He likes to play chess with his friends.”

“Where does this information come from, sir?” Tailor asked, looking at Colonel Hunter. “Is it reliable?” He seemed uncharacteristically concerned.

“Our intelligence assets are dependable enough, son,” Hunter replied crossly. “We have our own people as well as contacts in the Zubaran intelligence services. This is an important job. This will be our first major hit.”

“Anything else we need to know, sir?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact . . .” Another picture appeared on the screen. This one was of a pretty nondescript Gulf Arab man, in traditional dress, and was taken from far away. “Your secondary target is this man. He’s the new proprietor of the social club. He appeared on the scene a few months ago. We don’t know anything about him other than his name,
Khalid
.”

“Why’s he important, sir?” I asked.

“He’s hosting Al Falah,” Sarah said. “He’s a facilitator. We’ve picked up some unusual electronic chatter coming from the club. A lot of encrypted phone traffic, stuff like that. We have reason to suspect Khalid is part of the enemy’s support network.”

“Even if that’s not the case,” Hunter said, “everyone in Zubara knows who our target is and what he does. Part of our objective is to make the man on the street afraid to deal with the bad guys. So Khalid is your secondary target. Your tertiary targets are Al Falah’s bodyguards and assistants. Eliminate as many of them as possible.”

Tailor and I exchanged a knowing look. I felt a predatory grin split my face as I returned my attention to the briefing. This was the kind of job I’d signed up for.

VALENTINE

Ash Shamal District

March 25

1757

“Our boy’s here,” I said, looking through a pair of compact binoculars. Tailor was lying next to me, doing the same thing. One floor down and across the street from us, a bright yellow Hummer H2, followed by a white Toyota Land Cruiser, pulled to a stop in front of the social club. “Would you look at that?” I asked. “That’s a pretty pimp ride he’s got.” Tailor chuckled.

The Land Cruiser’s doors opened, and four men, presumably bodyguards, piled out. They were all dressed in cheap-looking suits without ties. As I watched, the driver got out of the Hummer, hurried to the other side of the vehicle, and opened the passenger’s side door.

“There he is,” Tailor said as a short, heavyset man in traditional Gulf Arab garb climbed out of the large yellow SUV. Tailor and I laid eyes on Ali Bin Ahmed Al Falah for the first time. We’d been coming to the same spot for days, watching the social club, waiting for him to make an appearance. Today we finally got lucky.

We were on the second floor of a half-completed building that stood directly across a divided street from the social club. It was going to be an office building of some kind, but construction had been halted. The second floor had large floor-to-ceiling windows on the sides. The glass wasn’t installed yet. We lay on the floor, side by side, shrouded in the darkness the unfinished building provided, watching our target. The sun was low in the western sky behind us. People passing by on the narrow street had no idea we were there. Our vehicle was parked in the narrow alley behind the building, concealed from view.

Tailor reached into his backpack and pulled out a handheld device that looked like a satellite dish. He put on a set of headphones. “Let’s see if we can hear what they have to say.” Neither of us spoke Arabic, but we could connect the parabolic microphone to our radios and transmit the intelligence back to Control.

Al Falah made his way toward the glass front doors of the establishment, with his driver walking just behind. The other bodyguards fanned out and did a half-assed job of observing the area. As Al Falah approached, another man in similar Arab attire appeared from inside. The two men greeted each other warmly, grasping each other’s right hands while putting their left hands on the other man’s right shoulder. They then exchanged kisses on each cheek.

“That must be Khalid.” I squeezed the transmit button on my tiny microphone. “Control, Nightcrawler. We have eyes on the primary, secondary, and tertiary targets. Intel was correct. This is the place.”

“
Copy that, Nightcrawler
,” Control replied, all business. Anita King was on the radio instead of Sarah.

“Control, Xbox,” Tailor said, “I’m transmitting now.”

“
Copy that . . . receiving
,” Anita said. I could hear Al Falah and Khalid speaking in Arabic in the background. We observed Al Falah and Khalid for several minutes, until they disappeared into the club, followed by Al Falah’s entourage.

“Did you get all that, Control?” Tailor asked.

“
Uh . . . roger that
,” Anita said. “
They were just greeting each other. Said something about a chess game, and that they were going to discuss a proposal
.”

“What kind of proposal?” Tailor asked.

“
They didn’t say. Observe the area for as long as you can, then withdraw without being detected
.”

“Roger that, Control,” I said. “Out.”

Tailor looked over at me, then back through his binoculars. “I’m hungry.”

“So, what do you think?” I asked. “How you wanna do this?”

“I say we get a scoped rifle and just pop him from here.”

“Sounds easy enough. Do we have a scoped rifle?”

“There’s an SR-25 in the safe house we can use. It’s got a suppressor, too. From right here, we can lay down some fire, drop a bunch of these guys, and then bug out through the back.”

“Did you get a good look at the bodyguards?” I asked. “I think they’ve got sub-guns.”

“Probably little MP5s or something under their suit coats,” Tailor agreed. “Probably can’t shoot for shit. We should be okay.” It was about sixty yards from our position to the front door of the club.