Deric lowered his voice and whispered, “He could have pulled it back with the Jeep, but he was all, ‘ooh, they’re shooting at me.’” He shook his head. “He had a damned howitzer for fuck’s sake. Shoot back!”
“Enough of the chit-chat.” Jay pushed through the door and set the heavy crate on the workbench. “We have to prep these for the surprise party.”
Bridger’s gaze narrowed. “Are we positive they’ll show?”
Jay sighed and shrugged. “I’m almost certain that whoever tailed Viktor set eyes on us.” He pointed to the sky. “Either satellite or drone.”
“What about the terrorists?”
He shrugged again. “If they’re coming from the ‘stan, we have time. If they have agents stationed here…maybe not so much.”
Bridger groaned again then reached for the wooden crate. “Time to make the doughnuts.”
Langley, VA
AGENT DARREN CHESTERFIELD jerked awake, his head snapping side to side. “I know what I gotta do.” He slid off the leather couch and staggered as he made his way to his computer. He caught a whiff of himself and nearly retched.
A quick glance to the mirror and he did a double take. He barely recognized the man staring back at him. He turned and reached for his phone. “I need a sitrep.”
He checked his watch and couldn’t be certain what day it was. He listened as the summaries came over the line. “Prep a team. Twelve men in full tactical gear. Two hours. Collate all of the reports, contact the eyes in the field and find out if they’ve popped their ugly heads up anywhere else.” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and reached for the hours old cold cup of coffee. “I need verification of their current location. We can’t risk blowing this now. Use the damned drone if you have to.” He slammed the phone down and swallowed the cold, bitter liquid.
Darren pulled his locker key and headed to the gym facilities in the basement. They had showers, sinks and he had a grooming bag in his locker. A shower and shave would do him wonders. He had his tactical gear in the locker as well. He could justify wearing it by following the team into the field.
He wanted to be there when they took down Bridger and his buddies.
Multan, Pakistan
MAMOON STEPPED CAUTIOUSLY from the stolen Toyota and looked around. The neighborhood looked very much like a war zone. “Is it safe to be here, Balil?”
The slender man slammed the door of the car and stretched, his body protesting as his hands reached to the sky. “We are as safe here as we can be anywhere, Mamoon. My family will help to—”
“Keep your hands up, brother.”
Balil turned and stared at his sister holding a Kalashnikov rifle. The barrel was pointed at him and he could see by the set of her jaw that she would pull the trigger. “Ayesha, what are you doing?”
She jabbed the barrel at him. “I said keep your hands up, Balil.”
Mamoon turned slowly, hoping to disappear in the shadows. A steely jab to his kidney froze him in place. “Hands where I can see them, fat man.”
The voice was gruff and Mamoon fought not to wet himself. He slowly raised his hands and stared at Balil with wide eyes. “What is happening, Balil?”
“Men from the ISI have been here to speak to us, Balil,” Ayesha hissed. “They told us that you are the ones responsible for what happened in Karachi.” Her jaw tensed. “How could you?”
“It wasn’t us, Ayesha. I swear to you!” Balil pleaded, his eyes welling. “We could never do such a thing.”
“Thousands died because of your flags, Balil!” She tightened her grip on the rifle and pointed it directly at his chest. “They told us that if you came here, we were to stop you from leaving. Sana is calling them now.”
Balil felt as though he had been punched in the gut. His own sister was calling the ISI to report him. “We are blood, Ayesha. How could you turn on me like this?”
“How could you kill so many of our own people, Balil? For money?”
“No, Ayesha, no. We did not do this thing.” He turned to Mamoon. “Tell her!”
Mamoon slowly lowered his hands. “We did not do this.” He lowered his face and stared at the ground. “But I fear we are responsible.”
“NO!” Balil screamed. “You know we are not!” He turned frantic eyes to his sister. “Please, you know me! You know that I am not a fundamentalist. I am not even political. We only make those flags so that others can burn them. It is only a job.”
She nodded, her grip tightening on the rifle. “You tell me all the time how unrest fuels your business. How much money there is to be made by creating your flags.” She spat on the ground. “You will kill no more of our people to pad your purse, Balil.”
He slowly fell to his knees, his hands covering his face. Mamoon watched his friend wail as his own sister held a rifle on him. “We did not do these things.”
Mamoon nearly jumped when Balil sprung forward, his hand wrapping around the end of the barrel and pushing it away from him. The report of the rifle was deafening in the narrow alley and Ayesha screamed as her brother tried to wrench the rifle from her grip.
Mamoon didn’t realize that the punch to his back was a round going through his midsection. As he fell to the ground, he honestly thought that he had been struck or kicked. It wasn’t until he noticed the blush of red soaking through his shirt that he realized it was no punch.
He rolled to the side and watched as Balil’s face exploded from another shot fired from across the car. He watched the man who had been behind him step over his prone body and shoot twice more at Balil’s body, now twitching on the ground.
Mammon felt
