This attention to security kept them safe for a few months, but complacency returned, one of their number grew overconfident, and he did not do as he was told. In a breach of PERSEC, he contacted an old friend in Tripoli, and the friend, a man who had switched allegiance to the new government to keep his head attached to his neck, reported the contact to Libya’s new and fledgling intelligence service.
Though Tripoli’s new crop of spies was excited by the news that a collection of their old enemies had been tracked to Istanbul, they were in no position to act on the intel. Infiltrating a team into a foreign capital with a kill/capture objective was no move for a rookie agency just finding its way around its new building.
But another entity intercepted the information, and it had both the means and the motive to act.
Soon the Istanbul cell members of former JSO operatives became targets. Not targets of the Libyan revolutionaries looking to eradicate the last vestiges of the Gaddafi regime. Not targets of a Western intelligence agency looking to settle scores with members of a former enemy spy shop.
No, the five Libyans became targets of an off-the-books assassination team from the United States of America.
More than a year earlier, a member of the JSO cell had shot and killed a man named Brian Caruso, the brother of one of the Americans, and a friend of the rest. The shooter had died soon after, but his cell lived on, surviving the revolution, and now they flourished in their new lives in Turkey.
But Brian’s brother and Brian’s friends did not forget.
Nor did they forgive.
ONE
The five Americans had been lying low in the decrepit hotel room for hours, waiting for nightfall.
Sheets of warm rain rapped on the window, generating the majority of the sound in the dim room, as there was little talk among the men. This room had served as the base of operations for the team, though four of the five had stayed at other hotels throughout the city during their weeklong stay. Now that preparations were complete, those four had checked out of their quarters and consolidated their gear and themselves here with the fifth man in their group.
Though they all were still as stones now, they had been a blur of activity over the past week. They had surveilled targets; developed op plans; established covers; memorized their primary, secondary, and tertiary exfiltration routes; and coordinated the logistics of the mission to come.
But preparations were now complete, and there was nothing left to do but sit and wait for darkness.
A rumble of thunder rolled in from the south, a lightning strike far out in the Sea of Marmara illuminated the five statues in the room for an instant, and then the darkness covered them once again.
This hotel was situated in the Sultanahmet district of Istanbul, and it was chosen as the team safe house due to the courtyard parking for their vehicles and the fact that it was more or less equidistant to where the operations would be carried out later in the evening. The hotel was not, however, chosen for the vinyl bedspreads or the grimy hallways or the surly staff or the stench of pot smoke that wafted up from the youth hostel on the ground floor.
But the Americans did not complain about their accommodations; they thought only of their tasks ahead.
At seven p.m. the leader of the cell looked down to the chronograph on his wrist; it was fastened over bandaging that covered his entire hand and a portion of his forearm. As he stood up from a wooden chair, he said, “We’ll head out one at a time. Five-minute separation.”
The others — two seated on a bed speckled with rat shit, one leaning against the wall by the door, and one more standing by the window — all nodded.
The leader continued. “I sure as hell do
The others listened without responding. They’d been over this a dozen times in the past week. They knew the difficulties, they knew the risks, and they knew their leader’s reservations.
Their leader’s name was John Clark; he’d been doing this sort of thing since before the youngest of the men on his team had been born, so his words carried weight.
“I’ve said it before, gentlemen, but indulge me one more time. No points for style on this one.” He paused. “In and out. Quick and cold. No hesitation. No mercy.”
They all nodded again.
Clark finished his speech and then slipped a blue raincoat over his three-piece pinstripe suit. He stepped over to the window and reached out with his left hand, shaking the offered left hand of Domingo “Ding” Chavez. Ding was dressed in a three-quarter-length leather coat and a heavy watch cap. A canvas bag lay at his feet.
Ding saw perspiration on his mentor’s face. He knew Clark had to be in pain, but he’d not complained all week. Chavez asked, “You up for this, John?”
Clark nodded. “I’ll get it done.”
John then reached a hand out to Sam Driscoll, who stood up from the bed. Sam was dressed in a denim jacket and jeans, but he also wore knee and elbow pads and, on the bed next to where he’d been sitting, a black motorcycle crash helmet lay on its side.
“Mr. C.,” Sam said.
John asked, “You ready for the fly swat?”
“’Bout as ready as I’m gonna get.”
“It’s all about the angle. Get the angle right, commit to it, and let momentum do the rest.”
Sam just nodded as another flash of lightning lit up the room.
John stepped over to Jack Ryan, Jr. Jack was in head-to-toe black; cotton pants, a pullover knit sweater, and a knit mask rolled up above his face so it looked like a watch cap, similar to the one worn by Chavez. He also wore soft-soled shoes that looked like black slippers. With a handshake Clark said, “Good luck, Junior,” to the twenty- seven-year-old Ryan.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will.”
Last, John walked around the bed, and here he shook the left hand of Dominic Caruso. Dom wore a red-and- gold soccer jersey and a bright gold scarf, upon which the word
With a severe expression Dom said, “Brian was
Clark interrupted. “Have we talked about this?”
“Yes, but—”
“Son, whatever our five targets are up to here in Turkey, this op has gone way past simple revenge for your brother. Still… we are all Brian’s brothers today. We are all in this together.”
“Right. But—”
“I want your mind on your job. Nothing else. Every one of us knows what we are doing. These JSO assholes have committed other crimes against their own people and against the U.S. And it’s clear from their present movements that they are up to no good. Nobody else is going to stop them. It’s up to us to shut them down.”
Dom nodded distractedly.
Clark added, “These fuckers have it coming.”
“I know.”
“Are you good to go?”
Now the young man’s bearded chin rose. He looked into Clark’s eyes. With a resolute tone he said, “Absolutely.”
And with that John Clark picked up his briefcase with his non-bandaged hand and left the room without another word.
