Clear by Fire (8 page)

As he walked, the American used the grimy shop windows to check for tails. He constantly changed direction and cut from one side of the street to the other in an effort to thwart any pursuers.

Slipping between a group of tourists, he moved deeper into the heart of the city, but despite his hypervigilance, his mind began to wander.

His fall from member of the most elite unit in the military to one of the most hunted men in the world had been as sudden as it was final. The years of war had turned his soul callous, and he’d lost the part of him that his friends and family had known. Like many of the men who’d fought nonstop since 2001, he had been changed by horrors civilians would never know.

Mason had been married once, back when he had a chance to be happy. He had met Meg on a flight to North Carolina, and the chance encounter had blossomed into a relationship despite their differences.

He knew he never deserved her, but she supported him when he went through Delta selection, and after he was selected to join
the unit, he rewarded her by proposing. She wanted a diamond that wasn’t gaudy but was big enough to fill her friends with an innocent amount of envy. They planned a simple wedding in Florida followed by a honeymoon in Hawaii. But it never happened. Before he deployed, they stood before the justice of the peace. Afterward, he promised to make it up to her.

Six months later, when he got back, they went on their Hawaiian honeymoon, but he could never fit the dream wedding into the unit’s schedule. The fights started, which surprised them both because they’d never really fought—before the war.

Mason didn’t mind sleeping on the couch because, honestly, he didn’t sleep much anymore. He promised if she could just hold out a little longer they would be a real family outside the military.

The next deployment to Iraq came four months after the first, and when he came home this time, it was to an empty house and a Post-it note that read, “I can’t do this.” Every room in the empty house smelled like her, but drinking seemed to help. After signing the divorce papers and putting the house on the market, Mason tried to move on.

He volunteered for the next deployment because he didn’t want to stay in the States and figured that at least Iraq would be familiar, but he was wrong about that too. The country he’d left a few months before had imploded along the fractured lines of sectarian violence. The once-annoying insurgency had grown into a violent beast that roamed the cities and streets devouring soldiers and civilians alike.

His wife had been his foundation. She was the light that brought him through the darkness, but now she was gone and he was lost. Worse than being lost, Mason realized that he was a cliché. He was a “Dear John” whose girl had been stolen while he was away. When he slept he dreamed about her fucking some other guy whose hands and mouth touched places he would never see again. His war wasn’t in Iraq; it was in the sweaty, twisted sheets of some other man’s bed, and it was killing him.

One day he just stopped giving a fuck. Combat was the only thing
that got him out of his head. What others called “heroic actions in the line of duty,” he called a way out.

Stopping to light a cigarette, he casually scanned the faces milling around him. Nothing stuck out, but he knew better than to ignore his instincts. Making his way up the street, he could see the Internet café perched two blocks north.

On top of the café’s roof was an ancient satellite dish whose exposed cables ran to a crudely patched hole in the wall. Inside, a dark-skinned Arab sat behind a small desk covered in cigarette ash and empty cans of Wild Tiger energy drink. Without looking up from the grimy television set, he peeled a cracked square of plastic from a stack and slid it to the American.

Mason looked at the faded number six written on the plastic and walked back through the dense haze of cigarette smoke until he found the assigned terminal. He passed the desk, continuing to the rear of the shop, where he located the exit, before returning to the computer. Taking a seat, he checked his watch and logged in.

The space was jammed with computer terminals and the people sitting in front of them spanned every nationality in the region. Arabs, Africans, and Asians sat side by side, blowing smoke into the air, while chatting over Internet phones in their native languages. It was a chaotic homogenization of culture and technology that was unique to North Africa.

Mason scanned the room as he waited for the computer to boot up. The connection was slow. He’d already been at the computer for a minute.

Being on the run was impossible without a network, and while Mason had been taught to kill in the military, he had learned to survive from his mentor, Ahmed. Like him, the Libyan was a fugitive, and a deep friendship had grown between them. Over the years Mason had been able to repay the man for saving his life, but he never forgot the debt he owed.

The Internet provided a level of ambiguity, but e-mail accounts
could be hacked and traced, so he still had to be careful. Obscure chat rooms provided a way to hide in plain sight by using simple codes, and Ahmed had set up a list of such sites, which they rotated to avoid detection.

It had been a week since their last contact and the site Mason logged in to was for Nissan car enthusiasts. The Web page allowed people to chat on various blogs or privately message another member. After typing in his password, Mason composed a quick message explaining his need to get out of the country.

The message was addressed to “gearhead71” and Mason wrote, “I need a new brake job on my old truck and wanted to know a good time to bring it by the shop.”

Leaning back in the plastic chair, Mason lit a cigarette as the phone in his pocket chirped. Vernon was making a call.

Mason plugged an earpiece into the cloned phone and, shoving the earbud into his ear, hit the answer button. On the same day he shook Vernon’s hand to begin working for him, he’d broken into the spy’s apartment and found the cache of burner phones that Vernon rotated sporadically. Mason hadn’t had time to clone them all, but luckily the CIA man was lazy and soon tired of rotating the phones, which gave Mason the upper hand.

“Yes,” a man’s voice answered. Not someone Mason could recognize, but definitely someone in command.

The connection was bad and Mason assumed that whoever was on the other line was using a satellite phone.

“Are you secure?” Vernon asked.

“I wouldn’t answer if I wasn’t.”

Mason leaned forward and closed his eyes against the babble of the room. He didn’t recognize the voice, but he was immediately struck by the inherent command of the speaker’s tone. This was a man used to giving orders.

“The target made it out of Kona, he’s going to Libya.”

“Libya.” There was a long pause on the line.

“Yes, sir, is that a problem?” Vernon asked hesitantly. He was obviously intimidated by the man on the other end of the line.

“No. Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure. Look, I’ve released his file to the locals, so there’s nothing to worry about. Is everything set on your end?”

“Does he know about me?”

“No, how could he?”

“Because he’s a lot smarter than you are.”

“Look, he has no idea what’s going on. Trust me.”

“I find that people who ask for trust are usually the ones who don’t deserve it. Send Decklin to deal with him, and tell him not to fuck it up this time.”

“Yes, sir, what about the drone?”

“As long as you have done your part, Barnes will take care of the rest.”

“I loaded the override software, and the target’s itinerary has been forwarded to the colonel.”

“Get Decklin to Libya, and take care of this problem,” the voice replied.

“Okay, I’ll—” The line went dead before Vernon could finish his sentence and a second later the spy ended the connection.

Mason felt a chill creep up his spine as he tried to process the conversation. Obviously Decklin and Vernon were up to something, and it involved Barnes pretty deeply.

He’d heard rumors that his old teammate had sold his soul to the private sector, but it sure sounded like someone was putting the band back together. Decklin had many talents, but his lack of ethics was what made him valuable. There was nothing the man wouldn’t do if he thought it would profit him.

Mason had learned this lesson firsthand.

The local intelligence apparatus was a joke, but if Vernon leaked the fact that he was in Morocco, there was no way for him to know who would come out of the shadows for a chance to take him out.

Mason’s hand slipped subconsciously to his pistol. The bulge was reassuring but not practical in the tight confines of the Internet café. Checking his watch nervously, he decided to give Ahmed five minutes to reply and then he had to leave.

He lit another cigarette and felt his foot tapping nervously on the chipped concrete floor. Mason strained to see the front door. It was out of sight, hidden just off to his left.

The computer tab blinked suddenly and a small white envelope appeared at the bottom of the screen. He clicked it open and greedily read the message that appeared.

It read, “Can fit you in on Thursday. Do you need a ride home?”

Mason typed, “See you then—need a ride.”

He hit the enter button, sending the message, and was about to log off when he saw that Ahmed was typing a reply.

His watch told him he’d been at the computer for six minutes.

The new message popped up at the top of the previous one, and Mason leaned in to read it.

“You’re burned, get out now.”

Fuck.

Mason quickly logged off the computer and moved to the front of the café. He handed the man the plastic card and turned his back to the desk while the shopkeeper checked the computer for the amount of time Mason had used.

A black sedan cruised slowly past the shop, its windows tinted dark against the sun.

Relax, you’re good
, he told himself.

The Arab was counting out his change and trying to watch the TV at the same time. He fumbled with the coins, dropping them on the floor with a curse. Outside in the street, the sedan had come to a stop near the curb.

Mason’s hand reached for his pistol as a man with a cropped haircut got out of the passenger seat and looked down the street before closing the door behind him.

“Keep the change, my friend, I need to use your toilet anyway,” Mason told the man in Arabic.

The shopkeeper handed him the key to the restroom and returned the bills to the register without taking his eyes off the Bollywood remake he was so engrossed in. Mason weaved his way back to the rear, passed the bathroom, and pushed on the back door. It was locked.

“Seriously?” he asked aloud, cursing himself for not checking earlier.

Mason searched for a latch; there wasn’t one. The door had to be secured from the outside. He was about to kick it open when he noticed the welds on the door frame.

There was a small recess near the door, partially obscured by an empty crate of wire. Mason moved back to the bathroom, unlocked the door, and flipped on the light. The smell of shit and stale urine poured out, and he checked to see if the man was coming before closing the door and wedging himself behind the crate.

It was a bad spot, but it was all he had. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his knife and flipped the blade open with his thumb. Mason ducked down behind the box and prayed the dark corner would conceal him.

I should just shoot this asshole
, he thought as a shadow appeared against the wall. He knew the suppressor would be too loud, though, and the last thing he needed was the cops on his back.

The man from the street slipped into his view, his light skin almost glowing against the dark walls. He was well dressed and had the deformed ears of a wrestler. Mason waited as the man slipped a pistol out of his jacket and shot a quick look back toward the computer terminals.

Mason could tell that it was some kind of Beretta knockoff, and that meant the man was local. He just hoped he was poorly trained.

The edges of the man’s mouth turned up in a smile as he took a shooting stance in the middle of the door and slowly began to turn
the knob with his nonfiring hand. Mason silently rose into a crouch as the door cracked open. With the knife at the ready, he stepped out of the shadows.

He was trying to time it so that he would slip behind the assassin just as the door came open all the way, but his hip gently bumped the crate and the subtle noise gave away his position as he stepped out into the open.

The man stiffened and, with his hand still on the knob, turned toward the sound. Mason brought the knife up, the blade aimed at his spine, but the man was already moving. He missed his spine, but sunk the blade into his back. Yelling in pain, the man turned abruptly as Mason shoved him into the bathroom, losing control of the knife as the pistol arced toward his face.

Mason tried to duck, but he was too close and he felt the jarring blow glance off his scalp. Dazed, the American stumbled backward as blood gushed from the wound. Recovering quickly, Mason got his hand on the man’s pistol and forced the slide back with his right hand.

His attacker kneed him in the stomach and Mason gasped for air but managed to weakly hook the man’s leg with his heel, trying to force him off balance. Despite the knife stuck in his back, the man easily avoided the trip and sent an awkward cross toward Mason’s jaw.

Refusing to let go of the pistol, Mason lowered his head and took the punch on the top of his skull. His attacker cursed and began frantically pulling the trigger, but the weapon refused to fire. Mason took advantage of the fact that his attacker’s finger was stuck inside the trigger guard and twisted hard on the pistol. Too late the man tried to free his finger. A second later Mason heard the fragile bones finally snap.

Ignoring the man’s curses, he brought his elbow over the top and caught him in the chin. The assassin buckled at the knees and fell hard on his back. Mason heard the blade snap off as the man slammed into the filthy tile floor.

Mason’s foot slipped in the pool of blood, but he caught his balance and drove his heel down on the man’s throat. The man gurgled and his legs shot out as Mason crushed his windpipe with a sickening crunch.