Knuckles reached behind the driver’s seat and found the box. Opening it, he pulled out what looked like a black, rubberized baseball. They called it a “Remington ball” because it was sold by the Remington Arms Company, the same people who make firearms. Invented and built in Israel, it was basically a hardened camera that could be rolled, dropped, or thrown. Knuckles had absolute faith in it, mainly because he had tried very hard to break it in the past. No matter how roughly he had treated it, the ball faithfully transmitted video to a handheld screen up to one hundred and twenty-five meters away — farther than he could throw it. What he found really unique — in fact a little creepy — was that the ball would right itself after it stopped rolling, putting the camera into operation as if it had a mind of its own. Once it did that, Knuckles could make the camera rotate a full three hundred and sixty degrees, seeing anything in the vicinity by remote control. In this case, they would only need to see down the street Azzam was walking up, allowing him to trigger the assault team when Azzam turned the corner.
But they’d need to get the ball into position. They drove as fast as they dared, hitting the street and doing a U-turn. Knuckles dropped the ball against the curb as the driver headed back to their original spot. Before Knuckles could orient the camera, Pike called and said Azzam was across the road and five minutes out. Knuckles cursed Pike again, taking a deep breath. Success or failure now depended on his actions alone. He didn’t dwell on it. He confirmed the linkup plan with Pike and banished any fears, mentally preparing for the assault. He got the camera under control and began peering at the video screen, patiently waiting. Eventually he saw a fuzzy figure advancing on the camera ball.
“Two minutes out.”
“Roger.”
He watched the man get closer and closer, until he took up the entire display. The picture was clear enough for him to recognize Azzam. Knuckles rotated the ball as he passed, now watching the target’s back moving into the first hitch.
“Thirty seconds.”
“Roger.”
Knuckles nodded to the driver, who started the van, pulling into the street at a slow pace. He rounded the first hitch in the road and saw Azzam bathed in the glow of the headlights. They were late. The driver inched the gas pedal forward just as the assault team deployed.
Knuckles saw one man move to Azzam’s front, while the other two advanced from the rear. One held a Taser X26 stun device. He pulled the trigger from a distance of five feet. Firing two projectiles attached to wires, the Taser caused Azzam to instantly lose neuromuscular control. He fell to the ground with only a sharp exhale of breath, quivering, unable to move. The other men from the assault element fell on him, flex-tying both his hands and legs with zip ties much like those used on garbage bags, only much, much thicker.
The driver pulled the van up parallel to the downed terrorist, while Knuckles threw open the sliding side door. Two men outside heaved the terrorist into the van while the third kept the voltage going, preventing Azzam from doing anything but twitch. They climbed in behind him, sliding the door shut. Knuckles breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the clammy sweat on his body for the first time. They’d been working toward this moment for what seemed like years, but the entire operation had taken less than the planned five seconds. The van sped out of the area, only stopping momentarily to allow Knuckles to recover the Remington ball.
It had been almost seven minutes, and I was growing a little antsy. Maybe I should have had Knuckles confirm his plan. I was itching to break radio silence but wouldn’t, mainly because I’d never hear the end of it from Knuckles. I knew better than to bug the team. He would do the right thing. I hoped. Finally, I got the call.
“Pike, Pike… this is Knuckles… Jackpot. I say again, Jackpot.” Knuckles spoke in a calm monotone, as if he had just awakened from a nap.
I knew this was an act. He was probably hyperventilating when he put the handset down. I matched his cadence, because that’s what cool commandos do, and replied, “I copy Jackpot. What’s your ETA to my location?”
“Two minutes.”
“Roger. Standing by.”
I cranked the car and waited. Two minutes and fourteen seconds later they pulled up, not that I was looking at my watch. Knuckles was grinning like a teenager who had just egged the principal’s house. He gave me a thumbs-up, and we pulled out of the parking lot with me in the lead. My car would now be a buffer vehicle for any contingencies that might happen en route.
Within minutes we were out of Tbilisi proper and headed toward a warehouse the support team had rented, not a single bit of evidence left that anything at all had occurred.
I called in the mission, alerting the reception team we were en route. Twenty minutes later, the car and van pulled into a vacant warehouse, the rolling door closing behind us.
I left the packaging of the terrorist to the support team, knowing he wasn’t being flown out until tomorrow. In the meantime, he would be given a complete physical to make sure he wasn’t on the verge of a heart attack, then sedated for the trip. My part of the mission, the fun part, was over. I grinned when I saw Blaine Alexander come out of the small office we were using for a tactical operations center.
“Another good one. No issues whatsoever.”
I noticed that Blaine’s face was grim.
“What’s up? Did something go bad on the Chechen hit?”
“No. It’s personal. Can I see you alone?”
My first thought was that he was pissed that I had altered the plan and taken Azzam without talking to him. I followed him into the office. “Yeah. Sure. What’s up?”
Blaine closed the door. “Pike, I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s about your family.”
After the first sentence I could no longer hear him. All I could hear was my daughter saying I kept the bad men away.
PART TWO
13
Professor John Cahill gave an exasperated sigh and sat down, sinking into the fetid jungle soil. Sometimes he felt like he was trying to run a race in knee-deep mud. He was deep within Guatemala’s Reserva de la Biosfera Maya — the Maya Biosphere Reserve — in the northeastern department of El Peten, and for some reason his workforce had decided to quit. He had been doing this sort of excursion into the heart of the Yucatan going on thirteen years now, all in a quest for his mythical Temple of Priests. He had been robbed by bandits, contracted malaria, and almost killed by an asp, but never had his workforce refused to continue.
Once a rising star in the Latin America department of the University of North Carolina, he was now teaching undergrads basic anthropology theory at the College of Charleston, his fall from grace complete. The school itself was a pretty good liberal arts college, but it didn’t have a major in archaeology and didn’t give a rat’s ass about his theories of the Mayan demise, forcing him to fund these expeditions out of his own pocket.
As always, he had hired local Mayan laborers without going through the required steps with the Guatemalan government. Nobody had cared before, and surely nobody would now, but an unhappy labor force could bring unwanted scrutiny. The Biosphere, one of the last remaining uncharted rain forests on earth, was dotted with Mayan archaeological treasures. Because of this, his activities would not be looked upon as a prank. Disgusted, he called over the native leadership, determined to find out what on earth could cause his hires to give up a new set of thirty-cent rubber sandals.
The natives themselves couldn’t articulate to the professor exactly what it was they feared, only that they
