“They’ve got a Robert DeNiro five-pack. I’m watching the windows on the mosque. If I was gonna snipe you, that’s where I’d be.”
“Lots of traffic, but nothing suspicious,” Reaper said. He and Jill were parked about a block away to the south.
I noted a man standing near one of the fish stands. Skinny guy, wearing Ray-Bans, he was making good use of the crowd to cover himself but was obviously watching the people clustered around the fountain, waiting for something. He had the look of a local, so that was probably one of Hosani’s men.
My phone buzzed. The text was short.
So the exchange wasn’t going to be in public. The thin man saw me looking at my phone, right on schedule, so now he knew who I was. I bent down, as if to tie my shoe, but primarily so he couldn’t see me speak. “Got the message. Moving north to the first warehouse. I’ve got at least one guy watching me. Stay low.” I adjusted the backpack and started pushing through the crowd in the direction of the docks.
VALENTINE
Umm Shamal District
May 3
1555
Hasa Market was a sprawling, confusing maze of tiny shops, stands, and carts that emanated out from an old fountain in the square. To the north were a trio of warehouses on the pier. Tailor parked our Land Cruiser between a mosque and a small schoolhouse on the west side of the square.
Hudson and Byrne were supposed to park their vehicle on the opposite side of the square. As much as we could, we always took two vehicles on a mission. It gave us a backup option should we not be able to make it to our own vehicle. Also, we figured that with all of the chaos we were about to cause in Hasa Market, we’d have less chance of getting snagged by the cops if we split up.
The situation still sucked. Four of us were going into an unknown building against an unknown number of opponents. Because we had to go through a crowded marketplace in the middle of the afternoon to get to that building, we could only bring weapons that we could conceal, i.e., handguns. Going into a gunfight with nothing but a handgun is stupid and should be avoided if at all possible.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible. Hunter had suggested that we use compact assault rifles, concealed in backpacks, that we could drop if we needed to disappear into the crowd. Gordon Willis had overruled him on that one, apparently. He said it caused an unacceptable risk of getting made.
It seemed the risk of us getting our asses shot off trying to go into a gunfight with nothing but pistols didn’t bother him. By that point I’d had more than my fill of Gordon Willis. But there was nothing we could do except carry on with the mission and try not to get killed.
Tailor and I made our way through the cluttered mess of Hasa Market, doing our best not to be noticed. We were both wearing khaki cargo pants, dark T-shirts to conceal body armor underneath, sunglasses, and untucked shirts to hide our sidearms. We looked undeniably American, but even with the recent chaos, no one seemed to pay us any mind.
The market stunk of fresh fish, and squawking seagulls filled the air. The rows of booths, carts, and shacks weren’t laid out in any discernible order. They were gaudily decorated with what looked like Christmas lights, loudspeakers playing music, and signs in six languages. Most of the shoppers at Hasa Market weren’t Zubaran citizens, or even Arabs. Most were imported labor from India, South Asia, and the Philippines.
The market sold more than just fish. Goods of every variety could be bought, from bootleg DVDs to clothes to medicine of dubious medical value imported from Asia. As Tailor and I made our way past various stands, the vendors would blurt sales offers out at us in broken English, telling us they had a great deal that was perfect for our needs.
“Lo siento, no hablo Ingles,” is all we’d say in return. Tailor and I both spoke Spanish fairly well and had decided that with this many witnesses around, we’d avoid speaking to each other in English if at all possible. Half the world spoke English, including people in the Middle East. You’d be a lot harder pressed to find a Middle Easterner that spoke Spanish.
I did have to speak English into my radio, so I squeezed the transmit button and spoke softly. “Control, Nightcrawler, target building in sight.” Tailor and I studied the warehouse though the crowd, trying to discern the best way in.
“
LORENZO
The noise of the market was muted here by the thick walls of the surrounding buildings. The skinny guy was still following discreetly. I had to cross a narrow street, and, glancing both ways, I saw no vehicles other than parked delivery trucks. It was late enough in the afternoon that all the day’s deliveries had been made. It smelled like fish.
There was a man, wearing a nice suit, waiting for me at the side door of the first warehouse. “Mr. Lorenzo,” he said in rough English. “I need search you before come in.”
“Tell Hosani to kiss my ass. If he’s got a problem, me and my big bag of money will just go home.”
The guard nodded. “He said you say something like that. I just want make sure you right man.” He opened the door into darkness.
The interior of the warehouse was dark and cool. Crates were stacked up in neat rows. The roll-up door at the rear of the building was open, and a few small fishing boats were tied there, as well as one nice fifty- footer.
I spotted Hosani in the shadows under the catwalk by the glowing ash of his cigarette. There were a couple other men standing toward the back of the warehouse, and, from the sound, at least one pacing the metal catwalk above. If he wanted to take me out, I was well and truly screwed.
“Hey, Jalal. You didn’t need to bring your whole gang,” I said with forced joviality, mostly so Carl would hear and know that there were a lot of men with guns here.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jalal said. “This is how everyone in my line of work has to travel now, in groups, and in secret. I’m only doing this as a favor, and then I’m getting on that boat”—he waved his cigarette toward the back of the warehouse—“and going someplace safe.”
“I thought this was good for business.”
He adjusted his coat as he put his lighter away, exposing the butt of a compact pistol. Hosani sold guns, but I’d never seen him actually use one. He really was nervous. Earlier I had thought Dead Six was unprofessional because of their lack of subtlety, but now I could see the logic behind it. Their targets were
“These Americans who leave the playing cards, they’re only part of the reason I’m leaving. This Dead Six, as you called it, is part of something bigger. I do not think they even realize who they are really working for.” He trailed off with a wry smile. as they say, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? My appreciation?”
“Of course.” I tossed him the backpack. He unzipped it and glanced inside, rifling quickly through the stacks of British currency. “You can count it. I won’t be offended.”
“I don’t feel like sticking around any longer than I have to,” he responded as he zipped the bag back up and put it over his shoulder. “I’ve got to warn you, Lorenzo. I don’t know what Big Eddie’s commissioned you to do, but it isn’t worth going after these people.”
