“What did she tell you?” Tex looked back as Harry closed the phone.
“The car is owned by a Richmond rental agency. It’s currently leased out to one of the Beltway Bandits,” he replied, referring to the high-priced consulting firms that had sprung up around D.C over the decades. “She says it would take two or three hours to find out the specifics of who is driving.”
“There it goes.” Davood observed, looking out his window. Sure enough, the Ford Taurus rolled right on past on the highway, its speed unchanged. Harry watched it go, his eyes narrowing as it disappeared into the mist.
“Keep an eye out,” he said finally. “I’m gonna get out and pump.”
“They just turned into a gas station off the Airport Road. I drove on past.”
“Do you think they detected you?” the man asked, speaking directly into his headset as he glanced out past his wiper blades at the rain.
“Impossible to say. This rain made the following distance close.”
The man nodded, thinking through his options. He was running short on time, no matter what he chose. In the end, he opted for confirmation. “Lead to Car Four, take up following position. Car Five, head to the I-495 ramp and wait there for go-orders. I’m headed into the station for VISDENT.”
Harry shifted the nozzle to his left hand, his eyes roving the terrain around the gas pumps. The possibility of a sniper could never be ruled out, but visibility was poor enough to make that unlikely. A sedan pulled into the gas station and Harry shoved his right hand deep into the pocket of his overcoat, his fingers closing around the grip of his Colt.
The car swung around the CIA vehicle and stopped at the pump ahead of them. Harry watched carefully as the driver exited the vehicle, a dark-skinned man perhaps a few years younger than himself.
The shadow looked over to see his quarry staring back at him from five feet away. He recognized the face from the photos he had been shown. Harold Nichols. Field leader of the NCS Alpha Team for the last four years.
Reading his dossier had been one thing. Coming face to face was another.
The CIA man’s right hand was buried in the pocket of his overcoat and the slight bulge told him there was a gun there.
He smiled across at Nichols, the type of world-weary smile strangers might exchange. “Crummy day, ain’t it?”
His quarry responded with a nod and a grin so casual that it almost deceived him. Then he noticed the eyes. They hadn’t changed. He turned back and swiped his credit card to pay for fuel. He might well need it.
Harry replaced the nozzle and screwed the gas tank cap back on, locking it securely in place.
“What’s your take?” he asked, sliding into the back seat of the Agency car.
“Military or law enforcement training,” Tex observed tersely, his eyes still on the sedan in front of them. “Packing a gun in a holster there in the small of his back beneath that Virginia Tech jacket. Of Mediterranean descent by the face.”
Harry nodded. He had picked up on the training, but missed the gun-then again, the men in the car had enjoyed a better line of sight.
“There’s a lot of law enforcement personnel this close to Washington,” Davood interjected, caution in his tones. “Good deal of ex-military in consulting, too.”
Hamid glanced back at the younger man through the rear-view mirror. “Most of them don’t carry-and the cops carry openly.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it here,” Harry said after a moment. “Keep an eye on our six and let’s move it out.”
When they left the gas station, the sedan did not follow. And the black Mercury Sable that eased up alongside as they merged into traffic turned off well before reaching the interstate…
Something had passed between them, Thomas realized, glancing over at Estere as they marched along the mountain trail. Something, he knew not what, had changed. He had seen it before-the friendship formed in the crucible of battle. They were comrades, now. And perhaps more.
Sirvan walked a few paces ahead, at the side of a drowsy-looking donkey laden down with munitions. But for the nature of their weapons, Thomas might have thought himself transported back in time. No, the weapons were familiar. He hefted the Kalishnikov in his hand, his fingers gliding across the scarred wood in an almost sensuous caress. He knew this gun. It had saved his life. One among many.
Glancing over, he caught Estere staring at him. She met his gaze unabashed, her lips parting into a teasing smile. He smiled back, chuckling to himself as the fighters continued their march into the mountains. Yes, indeed, perhaps more.
Estere was not the only one who had changed, Thomas thought to himself that night, sitting by the campfire between Sirvan and Azad Badir. The attitude of the entire group had changed toward him. He was one of them now, one of the
A chill autumn breeze fanned the fire, sending sparks dancing into the night sky high above their heads. Thomas’s gaze shifted across the burning embers, to where Estere knelt, cleaning her weapon by the firelight. Her fingers moved nimbly as she reassembled the sniper rifle with a speed no sergeant could have faulted.
His mind flickered back, remembering the look in her eyes when she had executed that wounded Iranian earlier in the day. A glance devoid of pity, empty of emotion. She had been a fighter in that instant, focused on one thing and one thing only. The extermination of her people’s enemy.
She glanced up from her work to find him looking at her and a small, secret smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
He grinned. A fighter, yes, but no less a woman…
“One of the boys over at Intel just pulled this off the Iranian subnet,” Bernard Kranemeyer announced, aiming his remote at a screen on the far side of the room.
The screen came alive as a video began to play-raw, low-definition footage, but the meaning was abundantly clear. They were watching a firing squad.
Harry leaned forward in his chair, puzzled by the direction their debrief had taken. The video only ran for forty-five seconds. The last forty-five seconds of a man’s life.
He watched dispassionately as the DCS hit PLAY again, slow-motion this time as the rifle volley crashed out, leaving the man crumpled like a broken doll against the stone of a courtyard.
“Who was he?” he asked as Kranemeyer turned back toward them, a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Farshid Hossein, according to the accompanying files,” was the reply. “A major in the Iranian Revolutionary Guards.”
“Do we know him?”
“He was a commander in the Quds Force commandos in Iraq. Personally responsible for the torture and beheading of Sergeant Major Juan Delgado back in ‘06.”
The words struck Harry like a blow. The memories began to flow unbidden through his mind. Delgado. Basra.
