Blown (24 page)

U
. S. Marshals Service Senior Inspector Pete Moss
thought about how he was going to handle the issue with the traitor. He should have followed procedure and reported what he found on Scalini's phone to his superiors, however he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not yet anyway. Not because of loyalty either, just the opposite. He wanted to confront the man and personally take him down.

The past twenty-eight hours had been the most tension filled of his career. Out of the chaos, Gregg Kaplan had emerged as an unlikely ally and partner. As their bond grew, so did their admiration for each other and their respective abilities. Of course, Kaplan seemed to be skillful at everything. His tradecraft training far surpassed anything the Marshals Service had to offer. Moss let his past dealings with the traitor cloud his judgment and derail his main objective, but Kaplan was able to rein him in and help him focus on the task at hand. Since Moss refused to turn everything over to his superiors and let them handle it, the objective was getting the turncoat to confess his involvement with Scalini.

Moss and Kaplan brainstormed some of the different techniques to make the man talk. The simplest, he thought, was to basically beat a confession out of him. That was his first option, but Kaplan tossed it off the table. He said it was self-defeating. Kaplan was right but it would have made Moss feel better.

After his flight landed in Memphis, he rented a vehicle from one of the vendors, stopped by an electronics store, and then made the two-hour drive to Little Rock. He had a gut feeling this confrontation would not turn out well. When he finished with the traitor, one way or another, he was finished. Being betrayed had taken the last bit of enthusiasm for the job away from him. He would find a hole somewhere within the Marshals Service and ride out his last few months until he was eligible to retire. When that day came, he'd turn in his paperwork and walk out the door.

In the back of his mind, he'd already tossed around the idea of starting a private investigation firm in the Chicago area where he could pick and choose his case load and be his own boss. That idea appealed to him. Now it was on the forefront of his mind as the job with the Marshals Service seemed to have sucked the life out of him. He was tired of the bureaucracy and wanted a new start.

As he arrived in Little Rock, his stomach churned. In a matter of minutes he would be face to face with the traitor and, at that precise moment in time, their relationship would make an irrevocable turn. Actually, it already had. Moss would become the man's enemy for life, which was probably the prison sentence the traitor would get when the courts were finished with him.

Moss pulled into the Little Rock Federal Courthouse, flashed his creds, and was waved through by a guard he'd known for several years. It was a formality. Even though the guard recognized the face, a cred check was always required or else the guard would find himself, or herself, out on the streets looking for employment. Since 9/11, security at all federal buildings and courthouses had been permanently ramped up and in many instances, unnecessarily so, and all at taxpayer expense.

Before he drove through he held out a piece of paper. "Do me a favor, Gus?"

"Sure, Inspector Moss. Anything for you."

Moss handed the guard a piece of paper. "Self explanatory."

Moss made his way to the Marshals Service office as he had countless times before.

When he reached Deputy Jon Hepler's office, Moss stopped, took a deep breath, and walked inside.

Hepler hung up the phone when Moss walked in, smiled and said, "Dirt Man. Hell of a weekend, huh?" He pointed to his phone. "Been trying to call you for two days."

Moss held up his phone. "Battery died."

"Last time you checked in, you and Gregg Kaplan were on your way to Jersey. Sit down and tell me what happened."

Moss took a seat. "What have you heard?" Moss asked.

"All I know is the FBI raided a warehouse, Martin Scalini is dead, the warehoused burned down with Scalini in it, and your witness is tucked away at the SSOC." Hepler leaned in and said, "How'd it go down?"

"Turns out Bruno Ratti works for Tony Q. He shot Scalini in the head at point blank range and then offed Angelo DeLuca."

"No shit? Bruno the Rat and Tony Q. Who would have seen that one coming?"

"I don't know if they've released this yet," Moss said. "But an FBI Regional Director was shot and killed by an assassin."

"An assassin wanted the regional director dead?"

"Not just any assassin. And her target wasn't the director."

"
Her
target?

"Remember Inspector April Moore?"

"How could I forget that red-headed pain in the ass?"

"Turns out she was an imposter. She's the international assassin known as Valkyrie. Number six on Interpol's top ten most wanted list. Kaplan said he'd been chasing her for over a year."

Hepler leaned back in his chair. "How do you know all this?"

"We caught her," Moss said. "Actually Kaplan did most of the catching, all I did was shoot her."

"Where is she now?"

"I don't know. Tucked away in a CIA jail somewhere in Manhattan, I guess." Moss leaned back in his chair. He finally felt relaxed…or as relaxed as possible. "Funny thing though, Scalini got tipped off about the FBI raid just seconds before they kicked in the doors."

Moss was always good at reading people, and Jon Hepler just gave up
a tell
. Moss noticed the tiny face twitch and skin flush. Body language was a good indicator. The man was guilty. A dirty cop. Now, he really did want to jump on the man and beat him to a pulp.

"You know, Jon." Moss paused long enough to get Hepler to react. "Scalini's men had the drop on me and Kaplan. We were almost killed.
I
was almost killed by Scalini's men. So I guess I owe you a debt of gratitude. Your call to Scalini saved my life."

"What are you talking about?" Hepler's voice cracked. "What call?"

Moss reached into his pocket and pulled out Scalini's phone. "The one you placed to Scalini. If it hadn't been for you, I'd be dead right now. And so would Kaplan. So we both owe you a debt of gratitude."

"Look, Pete. I don't know what the hell you're thinking and I don't like what you're insinuating. I had nothing to do with any of this. I haven't made any calls to Martin Scalini. Ever."

"Sure you have," Moss said as he held up Scalini's phone log. "See, right here. Deputy Jon Hepler. And it's a 501 area code."

"That's not even my number," Hepler defended. "Someone is trying to set me up. Look, Pete, you must believe me, I would never do that. You're my best friend, I would never betray you."

"As much as I want to believe you, Jon, I can't. See, Kaplan called in a few CIA favors and had the number run through their computers. He located the store where the phone was purchased and had the surveillance footage pulled. Guess whose mug showed up buying the phone?"

The expression on Hepler's face changed. His eyes darkened and his brow furrowed. "You WitSec boys always think you're better than everyone else. Always bossing around the PODs. Hell, it was probably one of you high and mighty WitSec inspectors who came up with
plain ole deputy
in the first place. What a slap in the face. You're nothing but a bunch of pompous assholes." Hepler pulled his weapon and pointed it at Moss. "You know, Pete, we had some good times before you went off to Chicago." He motioned with his gun. "Give me that phone."

Moss placed Scalini's phone on Hepler's desk and slid it toward him. "Jon, you're just making this worse."

"Worse? How could it get any worse?" Hepler put the phone in his pocket.

"Why'd you do it, Jon?" Moss asked. "Why did you turn?"

Hepler smiled. "What is it they said in the movie? Oh yeah, he made me an offer I couldn't refuse. You only get to say
no
one time to Martin Scalini, and then you're dead. I didn't want to be dead, Pete. I didn't want to die."

Hepler stood. "Now you just stay right where you are, Pete, and you won't get hurt. I'm going to leave now."

"Jon." Moss's voice changed. It was deep, strong, and authoritative, as if he were giving orders. "Sit down, Jon. It's over." Moss looked at his watch. "I'm wearing a wire…and that's not really Martin Scalini's phone. The real phone is in DC. Since there was no way you could know what Scalini's phone looked like, I had a similar one duplicated. You're going down, Jon."

Hepler took two steps back, still pointing his weapon at Moss. "No, Pete, I'm leaving. I'm not going to jail." Hepler backed out of his office, his gun still aimed at Moss.

"Freeze," a voice called out. "Drop your weapon."

Moss knew the voice. It was FBI Special Agent Richard Small.

Moss watched Hepler turn around.

His former friend pointed his gun at Small.

And just like that…it was all over.

S
leep came so
fast Kaplan barely remembered lying down on the bed.

Marla Farache had a meal prepared for him then insisted he get some sleep. He didn't resist. So much had happened in such a short span of time, he'd not been able to reflect on the events of the past few days.

He'd been asleep almost eight hours when he felt Marla's warm body curl up beside him. Her hand gently stroking his bare chest. He rolled over and faced her.

"How much longer till we land?"

"Little over two hours," she said. "It will be morning when we arrive in Tel Aviv. Uncle sent a message saying he'd meet us at the airport. He wants to personally take you to the harbor.”

"Did he say why?"

"No, there were no details. Just that he wanted to talk to you alone."

Kaplan wrapped his arm around her, placed his hand in her lower back, and pulled her naked body against his.

She arched her back and tilted her head. "What? No foreplay?" she said with a smile.

He placed his hand behind her head and pulled her lips to his and kissed her softly. He rolled her on her back, climbed on top, and gazed into her eyes. "Nope."

T
he jet landed
in Tel Aviv around 5:00 a.m. local time and he reset his internal clock. Marla reviewed with him the arrangements her uncle had made for his passage to and from Cyprus. He would have twelve hours from the time he arrived in Limassol to travel to Paphos, eliminate his target, and travel back to Limassol before the boat hoisted anchor and sailed out of the harbor. It was the kind of rogue mission he'd grown accustomed to with the CIA.

It was where he excelled.

Sex with Marla was as exciting and passionate as it was the first time in Egypt. It happened the night before he saved her life. They had shared a spontaneous moment of unrivaled passion. And even now, nearly eight months later, he could recall every vivid detail of their lovemaking.

Her skin was smooth as silk and her body toned and tight. With the exception of the two small scars from the al Qaeda terrorists' bullets, she was still a flawless beauty.

The Mossad jet taxied into a guarded hangar inside a razor wire perimeter fence. Every precaution was taken, as Mossad was always a target from one militant group or another.

After the jet's engines shut down, the cabin's air stair lowered. When Kaplan reached the exit, his weapons were returned. He stood in the exit door and glanced back at Marla who flashed him a guarded smile. He understood its meaning.

Kaplan reached the bottom of the air stair and was greeted by a man in his early seventies. He'd met the man once before, Marla Farache's uncle, Mossad Director Eli Levine.

Levine extended his hand. "Mr. Kaplan, welcome to Israel."

Kaplan shook the director's hand and said, "Thank you, Director Levine, for your assistance and cooperation in this matter."

The gray-haired man turned around and motioned to the armored limo waiting for them. "Think nothing of it, my son," he said. "It is the very least I can do for the life of my niece. How is Marla anyway?"

Kaplan motioned back to the aircraft as the two men walked toward the limo. "She's fine, Director, she's ins—"

"Let us go," Levine interrupted. "You have much work to do and we have many things to discuss."

There wasn't much discussion enroute to the harbor since Levine did most of the talking. Levine didn't mention anything about Kaplan's upcoming mission, which was why he thought Levine wanted to speak to him alone. The Hezbollah leader had been a thorn in Israel's side and Levine likely saw this as another favor Kaplan and the CIA were doing for him. At least equal to saving the life of his niece. Perhaps more so.

Instead, Levine talked about family, or in his instance, the lack of a family. His wife and three young children had been killed twenty years ago by a suicide bomber on the streets of Jerusalem. The only family he had left was his sister and niece.

"You did more than simply save my niece, Mr. Kaplan." Levine's voice filled with remorse. "You saved our bloodline. My sister has been barren since Marla's birth. The only hope for our bloodline to continue rests solely with my niece."

The limo pulled up to a dock and came to a stop in front of a familiar looking yacht.

Levine said, "I believe you have been on this boat before, yes?"

Then Kaplan saw the name emblazoned on the transom—
The Toymaker.
It was the same boat he rendezvoused with in the Red Sea after rescuing a woman held prisoner in a palace located in the mountains of Yemen. An operative who eventually became his partner at the agency.

After returning with her to the United States they engaged in a passionate love affair. Then one day, without an explanation, she disappeared. It was that operative the CIA had tasked him to locate and his starting point was El Paso, Texas.

He never made it.

"Yes, Director, I believe I have."

"Go then," said Levine. "I pray for your safe return." The director placed his hand on Kaplan's arm as he opened the door. "One more thing, I understand you have business to finish in the United States after Cyprus."

"Yes, Director. I have a few loose ends to tie up."

"When your business is complete, I would consider it an honor for you to return and be a guest in my country. I think Marla might take pleasure in that too."

Levine released his grip on Kaplan's arm as a deck hand from the yacht approached, "Mr. Kaplan, we are ready to set sail."

Kaplan looked at the director and gave a respectful nod. "I would like that very much, Director."

Kaplan boarded the yacht and was greeted by the captain. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Kaplan. Or should I say welcome back aboard?"

"Thank you, Captain." Kaplan noticed this wasn't the same boat captain as the last time he was on this vessel. The captain he met last time was American. This captain had a British accent. Or perhaps it was Aussie.

The Toymaker
was a one hundred twenty-five foot yacht that resembled a live aboard dive boat with some specialized enhancements designed by the owner. "How soon will we be in Limassol?"

The blond-haired captain smiled and said, "We've had a slight change in plans, I'm afraid. We won't be dropping you off in Limassol as planned."

"Oh?" Kaplan said. "Why is that?"

"Your connection in Limassol was involved in an unfortunate accident last night and will be unable to fulfill his obligations."

"What's the plan now, then?"

"About a mile offshore from your destination is the shipwreck Achilleas. We will sail to the Achilleas and anchor for the night. I will put divers in the water for several night dives on the wreck. You know, in case anyone is watching. You will swim to shore, complete your mission, and return to the ship. You're okay with swimming, aren't you?"

Little did the captain know, less than twenty-four hours ago Kaplan was in the Hudson River capturing an assassin. "Cakewalk," said Kaplan. "I just boned up on my swimming yesterday."

"Beg yours, what is a cakewalk?"

"Just an expression. Means it will be easy."

"No worries," the captain said. "You will have a total of four hours to complete your mission and be back on board or get left behind."

The cruise to the shipwreck Achilleas took all day and into the night.
The Toymaker
arrived over the sunken ship at 2200 hours. It had been another long day. There wasn't much for him to do except review the architectural plans of Çoban's compound, eat, and sleep. By the time the captain dropped anchor, Kaplan was well rested, well fed, and had memorized every detail of the Hezbollah leader's hideout. He felt good and his strength had returned. He was mentally focused, something he hadn't felt for several days.

Kaplan wanted to hit the compound between the hours of 0200 and 0400 local time. It was during that time period when the guards would be most vulnerable. Those early morning hours were a time when typically there was a lull in one's awareness. It would be quiet and boring. The guards' senses dulled from a lack of stimulation. Their recognition of danger would be slow and their reaction time even slower. Kaplan would have the clear advantage.

At midnight the captain woke Kaplan from another nap.

"Divers go in the water at 0100," he said. "You have until 0500 to get back on board. If you're not back, my instructions are to consider you dead. If there is a disturbance at the compound, I am to recall my divers, go dark, and leave immediately whether you have returned or not. These are my orders, Mr. Kaplan. Good luck."

"Understood, Captain. I will be back onboard by 0500 hours."

K
aplan placed
his hand over his mask and regulator and took a giant stride from the dive platform into the water with the rest of the divers. The water was brisk but not cold. He took a compass heading to the designated spot on the shoreline and then descended to fifteen feet. It took him twenty-five minutes to reach shore. It was a darkened portion of the rocky shoreline free from any lights. An area of slight coastal indentation surrounded by twenty-five foot rocky cliffs.

Intel reports indicated two men typically guarded the stone perimeter wall and one sharpshooter positioned on top of the building. He located all three as soon as he surfaced. His Delta Force training kicked in as he slowly approached the shore. Using his hands, he felt for the bottom. When his hands found it, he removed his fins, looped them over his non-firing hand, and let the waves bring him to shore. If anyone were to spot him on this moonless night, he'd look like a piece of driftwood floating in the water.

The two perimeter guards were smoking and standing beneath floodlights.
Who trained these idiots
? Standing near lights killed night vision. There was virtually no chance either one of them could spot him before he was on top of them.

Then it would be too late.

For them.

When he reached shore, he pulled off his fins, mask, and tanks and securely stored them amongst the rocks along shore. He pulled off his wet suit and draped it over his equipment. He opened one of the two dry bags he had towed behind him. His weapons.

He made a quick weapon check. All dry, loaded, and silenced. He slipped on his boots and prepared himself for action. He looked at his watch to verify his internal clock, almost two. Check. He wanted to make his move at 0230 hours so he sat on the rocky shoreline and waited.

Kaplan focused on the sharpshooter in the tower on top of the main compound building. Take him out first, if he could. Without his night vision goggles, Kaplan could see the man's rifle perched on top of the whitewashed wall. Through his NVGs, he saw the man slumped in a chair—asleep. Kaplan was stunned at the incompetence of Çoban's men. It wasn't yet 0230, but Kaplan couldn't afford to miss this window of opportunity.

Kaplan opened his other dry bag and pulled out his sniper rifle with its night vision scope. The most critical shot was the man in the tower. If Kaplan missed or only wounded the man, the mission would be compromised. If successful, the other two targets, the men under the lights with no chance at night vision, would be simple to take out.

He lined up the crosshairs on the man in the tower, zoomed in with his night vision scope, and saw the man's head hung across the backrest leaving Kaplan with a perfect profile view. The man had a full beard and his mouth gaped open. Kaplan could see his chest expanding and contracting with each breath, the deep relaxation of slumber. Kaplan locked the crosshairs with the center of the man's cranium, took five deep breaths, and gently squeezed the trigger. A mist flew from the man's skull.

He moved quickly to the guards. He had a good angle for rapid-fire succession kill shots. He dropped the first guard. The second guard heard the man fall and turned. Before the man could react, Kaplan squeezed off another round.

Fifteen seconds, three shots, three kills.