If things remained the way they were, Boko Haram would continue to muster their men in the three staging areas they had now identified, all protected by children acting as human shields. But a dozen men, brought in by helicopter, with a Reaper circling overhead might be enough to give them pause should they get it in their heads to move early. The barrier was in place, but it was still only a hollow shell. Yes, the enemy couldn’t see inside to find their targets or spy on what they were doing, but they could shoot through the barrier with impunity, for it went both ways.

  Those inside couldn’t see out.

  Dawson wisely had gun nests being assembled on top of the roofs of the buildings. They might be sitting ducks against a well-aimed RPG, but from what they had seen so far, their opponents didn’t grasp the capabilities, and, more importantly, the limitations of the weapon. Atlas was rapidly filling the barrier cells, and with each one, more civilians were better protected. They just needed time, and Dawson’s insane plan might just buy it for them.

  The sad thing was that there was a real solution to this problem, only politics was preventing it from being implemented. It disgusted him how innocent civilians were merely a variable in a large algebraic equation used by the bean counters that advised the leaders of the world. It was why they could never win the war on terrorism, and why those who ruled from the capitals of the nation-states made the lives of people like him so much more difficult than they should be.

  The door hissed open and Leroux looked to see Morrison beckoning him. Apparently, whatever needed to be said was something that couldn’t be overheard. Leroux joined him in the corridor.

  “It’s a no-go. The Nigerians are hopping mad about the Chinook. They consider it a violation of their sovereignty.”

  Leroux held his tongue. There was no need to verbalize the anger he could see his boss shared.

  Morrison leaned in closer. “I’ve got an idea, but it can’t come from me, and frankly, it can’t even come from you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will when I explain it to you.”

  49 |

  Amman Rotana Hotel Amman, Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan

  Kane groaned in ecstasy as Lailan, a Jordanian masseuse he had been acquainted with for some years, worked her magic on his sciatic nerve. It had been a long, uncomfortable, thankless mission in Syria, but well worth it in the end. The leader of ISIS was dead, in part thanks to intel he had provided—confirmation of the bastard’s location, verified after days of posing as a rock on the outside of a shithole of a town.

  The man was dead, and in the chaos of the attack that had killed him, Kane had managed to slip away and make his way to Jordan. Normally, he would be heading back stateside where Fang’s magic fingers would take care of his pain, but his handler had already indicated he was needed elsewhere in this part of the world, so sending him home made no sense. As a result, Lailan now tended to him.

  “Do you want the full package like last time?” she asked as her hands slid under the towel, caressing his buttocks.

  He reached back and moved her hands up a little higher. “Not this time. I’m practically a married man now.”

  “I’m insanely jealous.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been hearing that all over the world.”

  She smacked his ass. “I thought I was special!”

  He chuckled. “You know better than that, though I will tell you this. Whenever I come to Jordan, you’re the only girl I want to see.”

  Both cheeks got another squeeze.

  He wagged a finger. “Remember, no hanky panky. I’ve got a bad back. I’m here to have it worked out by somebody I trust. Is that going to be you?”

  She sighed and he could almost hear her pout. “Fine, but I was looking forward to tonight. You always take me to the nicest places.”

  “You don’t have a boyfriend, a pretty girl like you?”

  “Oh, I do, but life is so boring. We can’t afford to do anything.”

  “Does he know what you do here?”

  “What? Physiotherapy on foreigners?”

  Kane laughed. “That poor bastard, he has no clue what he’s gotten himself into, does he?”

  “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, and he enjoys the money I bring home.”

  Kane frowned. He felt sorry for these women, and in his old heavy drinking, heavy partying days, he was ashamed to say he was guilty of taking advantage of what they were forced to offer out of desperation. He was always careful to avoid any form of human trafficking—he only associated with women who worked for themselves. And he always treated them well, always paid them extremely well, and always cared for them as if they were his girlfriend, even if it were only for the night. A guaranteed one-night stand.

  His CIA-customized TAG Heuer watch fired an electric pulse into his wrist in a pattern that indicated he had a high-priority message that couldn’t be ignored. “What time is it?” he asked.

  She lifted his wrist above him. “Ten to seven.”

  He sighed. “I forgot, I’ve got somewhere I need to be at 7:30.” He rolled off the table and she toweled him down, rubbing the oil off, and as she kneeled in front of him, paying particular attention to his most favorite body part, she stared up at him mischievously.

  “Are you sure you have to be there at 7:30?”

  He smiled down at her. “Yes.”

  She sighed and gave Dylan Jr. a kiss. “Maybe next time.” She stood and he walked over to the table, grabbing his wallet. He fished out five times what he owed her and handed the wad over.

  Her eyes shot wide. “So, we are going out?”

  He shook his head. “No, you are going out. Take that boyfriend of yours and go have a good time, dinner, dancing, the works.”

  She stared at the money then back at him. “You’re sure you don’t want me to do anything special for you?”

  Kane again wagged his finger at her. “Nothing. Take the money, enjoy yourself.”

  She shrugged and smiled. “All right, I will.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek, her hot breath tickling his ear. “If you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”

  The sensual whisper sent a shiver down his spine, and a weaker man might have given in. But he loved Fang, and he had no intention of cheating on her outside of the job, and this was definitely outside of the job. She left the room, a bounce in her step, and he quickly dressed then entered a coded sequence by pressing buttons around the watch face. A message scrolled, indicating he had a priority communique through his private network. He pulled out his phone and logged in to his secure messenger, surprised to see it was from his best friend, Leroux.

  Now, why aren’t you using regular channels?

  He brought up the message and his eyebrows shot up. “Holy shit!” They rose even more as he read the proposed solution to helping Bravo Team. If there was a way to make it happen, it could very well work.

  But there was no way in hell he could see them going for it.

  50 |

  Saint-Raphael, France

  Alex West smiled at his daughter, Alexis Bertrand, bringing a new round of drinks. He didn’t get to see her very much, which he wasn’t pleased about since he had missed out on the bulk of her life, not even aware she existed until recently. By the time he met her, she was an accomplished woman, having followed in her mother’s footsteps into the French General Directorate for External Security, France’s CIA.

  His daughter was a spy, just like he had been, just as her mother had been, Alexis conceived in a night of passion in Moscow years ago. Her mother, Adelle Bertrand, and he had rekindled their relationship recently, and he could honestly say he had never been happier in his life, and wanted to make the most of what few years he might have left.

  And a family beach vacation on the French Riviera was his idea of paradise.

  Warm sun, a gentle breeze, the Mediterranean lapping at the beach, the laughter of children—it all mixed perfectly, and he wouldn’t change a thing.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said, as he took his drink. Alexis smiled at him and sat on the lounge chair to his left. He sighed. “It doesn’t get any better than this, does it?”

  Adelle agreed. “How much longer will the repairs to your place in the Black Forest take?”

  West frowned as he pictured the disaster they had left behind after the Russians had paid a visit. “Months.”

  Alexis’ eyes narrowed. “Why so long? I thought it was just damage from gunfire, grenades, and rockets.”

  He gave her a look and she giggled at her own joke.

  “I know, I know, but still, it’s already been a couple of months, and it’s going to be months more?”

  “Well, it’s not just replacing drywall and installing a new door. I’m having all the armor built into the walls beefed up. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than an RPG to punch a hole through it next time. Plus, I’m getting everything EMP protected so we don’t have a repeat. It’s expensive custom work. You can’t exactly have your local contractor come in. He’ll be at the bar the next day, telling everybody what he saw. These are all professional contractors hired through the Gray Network. They can be trusted to keep their mouths shut and to do the work properly.”

  “It sounds expensive.”

  “You have no idea. But I have benefactors, and the network has what you might call ‘insurance.’”

  “How is this Gray Network funded?”

  West smiled. “You need gray hair to be privy to that information, my dear. Let’s just say most of it comes from sub-contracting work. If you survive long enough in the profession you’ve chosen, and earned the respect of your elders, you just might be invited in like your mother and I were.”

  Alexis took a sip of her drink. “Well, I’m back in the field now, so who knows what’s going to happen.”

  Adelle reached across him and their daughter took her hand. Adelle squeezed it. “You be careful out there. The code of honor we operated under is no longer respected. I can’t tell you how many times your father and I could have been killed, but instead were captured and released, or given a pass.”

  West cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t know about you, but they almost never caught me.”

  Adelle swatted him. “This is serious. This is your daughter’s life we’re talking about.”

  “You’re right. Just remember, treat your opponents with respect whenever possible, because you might be sitting in that interrogation chair the next time, and they’ll remember how you treated them.” West groaned as he spotted someone approaching. “Like this crusty old bastard. I don’t know how many times we could have killed each other, but we didn’t.”

  Viktor Zorkin, former KGB, walked up with a smile and a wave. “Fancy finding you on my favorite beach.”

  West gave him a look. “I told you about it.”

  “That’s not how I remember it. Typical American spy, always taking credit for other people’s work.”

  “Funny, that’s not how I remember it.”

  “What are you doing here, Viktor?” asked Adelle. She smiled. “Not that you’re not welcome, of course.”

  West’s old rival from the Cold War chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to ruin your vacation. I’m actually here for your daughter.”

  Both West and Adelle’s eyebrows shot up, and Alexis smiled coyly at the elderly Zorkin. “While I’m flattered, sir, aren’t I a little out of your league?”

  Zorkin tossed his head back and laughed heartily. “Oh, my dear, we Russian men never get old in that department.” He grinned at West and winked at Adelle. “However, not to bruise your delicate French ego, I’m here for you in a professional capacity. Old friends need help that you might be able to provide.”

  West’s ears immediately perked. “What’s going on?”

  Zorkin grunted and groaned as he sat in a flimsy beach chair, and Adelle eyeballed him. “Is that the kind of grunting and groaning a lady can expect when spending an evening with you?”

  Zorkin gave her the stink-eye. “I’ll have you know it’s why I always pair my Viagra with two extra-strength Tylenol Arthritis.”

  West chuckled and Adelle swatted him. “Our daughter’s sitting right beside us listening to this pig.”

  West patted Adelle’s leg. “My dear, if she blushes over that, she’ll never make it in the spy game.”

  Alexis ignored them. “So, why do you need me? Who are these friends?”

  “Bravo Team is in a world of hurt right now. They’re trapped on a Forward Operating Base in Nigeria, outnumbered about twenty to one, with Boko Haram about to attack and governments playing politics. Now, some favors are owed, and you’re just the person to call in those favors. But it means leaving right now.”

  Alexis rose. “I’ll do whatever it takes. They saved my parents’ lives.”

  “More than once,” added West.

  51 |

  Approaching Boko Haram Staging Area Outside Maiduguri, Nigeria

  The dusk sun drew long shadows over the landscape as Wings expertly guided them into the heart of enemy territory. Red’s eyes, like everyone else’s, were keeping a watch for RPGs—there was no surprising anyone with a Huey. Everybody within miles probably knew they were coming, but one good thing about being so loud, and this time of day, was it was difficult to tell from exactly what direction they were coming. If it weren’t for the risk of RPGs, Dawson’s mission was actually rather simple and brilliant.

  But they had to get there first.

  And then on top of that, get out.

  If they succeeded, they could buy the time needed to reinforce the barrier. It might cost them their lives, but potentially save hundreds of others, and if they didn’t undertake this mission, they would die regardless. At least this way, they could be buying priceless time.

  A muzzle flashed to his right. “Small arms fire, three o’clock.”

  Wings banked them away and glanced at him. “You do realize that I can probably get us there, but getting out is going to be next to impossible.”

  Red shrugged. “Not my problem. The after-action report will indicate you failed, not me.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  Red grinned. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

  “Oh, I’ve always known it. Luckily, I’m an asshole too, so we get along just fine. If the two of us are such big assholes, then why aren’t we—” Wings was cut off with the squawking of the comms and Red’s raised finger.

  “Zero-Two, this is Control, come in, over.”

  “Go ahead, Control.”

  “We show you two minutes out. It’s important this be timed perfectly. Should visuals fail, we need you to report the moment you touch down the second time.”

  “Roger that, Control, we’ll notify you the moment the skids hit the ground. Zero-Two, out.” Red opened his tactical computer, their current location plus the two touchdown points indicated, points so carefully chosen there was no margin for error if they hoped to survive this.

  Ibrahim stared up at the drone that continued to circle overhead. It was obviously American, but he wasn’t certain why it was there. He would have thought the Americans would have a satellite overhead to give them all the images they could possibly want. Why they would need drone footage in addition to satellite, he wasn’t sure, but the one thing he was certain of was that his men were wasting ammo shooting at it.

  “Cease fire!” he ordered. “Every bullet you waste on that thing is a bullet that can’t be used to kill the infidel later tonight.”

  The chatter of the weapons quickly dwindled then fell silent. With the guns quiet, all he could hear was the breathing of his men and the whimpering of the girls used as human shields.

  And the pounding of a helicopter as it approached.

  It was then that he realized why the Americans had sent the drone. It was to disguise the approach of the helicopter. His men had been firing for at least ten minutes. Had there been other helicopters before? Had they inserted troops already? If so, how many?

  “We’re under attack!” he shouted. “Get the RPGs! We’ve got to shoot that thing down.”

  One of his men pointed to the west. “There it is!”

  Ibrahim spun and cursed at the sight of a helicopter touching down behind a grove of trees. He couldn’t see what was happening, but there was only one reason for it to land, and that was to unload troops. The sound of the rotors changed and the helicopter rose from behind the trees and banked sharply to his right. “Open fire!” he yelled, despite knowing they were out of range.

  Gunfire erupted around him, then the first of half a dozen RPGs screamed toward the target, all aimed in haste, none effective. The chopper touched down again, perhaps half a mile farther to his right, inserting even more of the enemy. He pointed at both landing areas. “Two teams! Let’s get them!”

  Scores of men around him sprinted toward the enemy. The helicopter rose into the sky as RPGs streaked toward it, and Ibrahim was about to order them to stop firing when a massive fireball erupted. He cheered with the others at the successful downing of yet another helicopter, but the celebration was short-lived as they now had enemy troops on the ground that had to be dealt with. He kept waving his arm as more men poured from the building, directing them toward the two landing zones, and as he heard the gunfire ahead as his men engaged what he assumed were American soldiers, it had him rethinking his plan. If the Americans had enough troops to insert here, what had been happening at the base since they had last seen it?

  Another massive explosion, much like the first, erupted uncomfortably close, and he cringed at the cries of dozens of his men delivered into the loving arms of Allah. His eyes narrowed. Something wasn’t right. He spotted something overhead and stared up to see a missile streak from the drone circling them. Another explosion tore apart the second group of his men heading to engage the enemy, and rage gripped him.

  They had been tricked.

  The helicopter hadn’t exploded at all, and now it had made its escape, though it still left the soldiers on the ground. Anger consumed him at the deception and the fact so many of his men had just been murdered. But there was nothing he could do about that now. All he could do was find and kill the soldiers that had just been inserted by that helicopter, and make sure they died horribly painful deaths.

 

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