Moral Imperative (17 page)

Chapter 34

London Heathrow Airport

London, England

2:33pm, August 24
th

James Cornet rushed to find a restroom. Weeks of eating foreign food had taken its toll. An hour didn’t go by that he didn’t break out in a cold sweat, bowels rumbling. The flight from Amsterdam was torture. Multiple trips to relieve himself and still no relief.

The first men’s bathroom he came to was closed for cleaning. Trickles of sweat were already pooling on his lower back like hanging lemmings. Luckily, he’d worn a black t-shirt. Cornet had learned that lesson on his way into the Middle East. More times than not your body betrayed your intentions. Wear a black t-shirt.

The next restroom was open, and he rushed to get the nearest stall. He barely got his pants down before the deluge commenced. Gripping the handicap handrail on the side of the stall, Cornet barely registered the door to the next stall opening and closing.

He heard the sound of gas being passed, and the audible sigh of relief from his new neighbor. Putting the other man out of his mind, he prayed for perhaps the hundredth time that day that Allah do something to settle his stomach. His father was expecting him, a small gathering of family sure to be there too. The returning hero with a case of the runs. Now that was a story for the ages.

Feeling somewhat normal for the moment, Cornet pulled out his cell phone and checked for messages. None. He exhaled in relief.

His departure from Syria had been abrupt, but less so than the day he’d left Iraq. Loud bombs and silent death from the shadows contrasted to induce outright panic. Cornet was glad he’d made it out in time. So many of his fellow holy warriors had not. Luckily, as a British national, he was able to board a flight first to Istanbul, then Amsterdam and finally home to London.

A knocking on the side of the stall shook him from his thoughts. It must be the man sitting next to him.

“Yes?” Cornet asked.

“You wouldn’t mind handing me a bit of paper, would you? Seems the roll is out on my side,” said the man in heavily accented Welsh.

It was good to hear the familiar dialect. Cornet had struggled to pick up Arabic. The writing was even worse. English was, after all, his first language, despite his Islamic faith.

“No problem,” he said, pulling out a length of toilet paper and rolling it around his hand until he had what he thought would be enough for the man to use. “Here you go.”

Cornet reached under the wall to give the stranger the toilet paper. As soon as his wrist passed under the metal barrier, he felt an iron grip clamp down on his hand. He tried to pull away, tugging with all his strength.

It didn’t help. With a terrible yank, his head slammed into the stall, stunning him. Seconds later, he realized he was lying on his back, staring up at a man with a gray eye patch.

“Welcome homes, James,” said the man, who Cornet now realized was holding a silenced pistol in his other hand.

“What do you—”

“Say hello to Allah, you bloody traitor.”

Time slowed. Cornet looked into the calmly furious eye of his attacker, and then into the extended barrel of the gun. He barely had time to hear the muted report of the weapon before two rounds pierced his forehead and cut off his response.

+++

Gene Kreyling wiped his boot on the dead man’s shirt and opened the stall door. Rango poked his head around the corner.

“All good?” he asked.

“Right.”

Rango’s head disappeared and Kreyling walked to the sink to wash his hands. Four men dressed as janitors streamed in behind him, wordlessly setting to the task of cleaning up the bloody stall.

Kreyling dried his hands and nodded to the men who were placing the terrorist’s body in a wheeled hamper, piling trash bags on top.

Another burly janitor stood casually next to Rango as Kreyling exited.

“Let’s go. Stokes will want to know that we got our third.”

Rango nodded and followed his boss toward Baggage Claim. Three for three. Not bad for their first day back.

+++

Zenica, Bosnia & Herzegovina

4:29pm

The small Islamic council listened to Daris Gudelj’s tale. He’d left months before with five more hand-picked young men who’d proved themselves to the secret fanatical sect of Islam. It was important to send their future leaders off to war, to test their mettle and strengthen their faith. Each of the six elders had spent their youth on treks to Lebanon, Palestine and Indonesia. It was part of their ritual, the path of a man.

And now, out of the six hopefuls they’d sent to fight in Iraq alongside ISIS, only one had returned. The once handsome Bosnian now looked shattered, shell shocked, a portion of the man he’d once been. Fear now replaced the hope and longing he’d left with.

They didn’t say it, but each of the six elders feared what it meant for their community. If word spread, their followers might falter. They’d been careful. Always outwardly friendly to their Christian neighbors. For nearly five decades they grew. Now numbering close to five hundred members, the close-knit community was tight-lipped and autonomous to all but Allah.

That was one of the reasons young Daris sat before them now. He had not been allowed to see his parents. This was his first stop. A decision must be made. While none of the men considered Daris a coward, the implications of his homecoming were obvious. He was tainted. They’d miscalculated. Something would have to be done.

“Daris, tell us again about your return trip. You are certain you were not followed?” asked one of the elders.

Daris nodded respectfully, his hands trembling. “Just as you told me. I spent close to a day in the Balkans just to make sure.”

“Good. Good.”

Silence once more as the men deliberated.

A buzzer sounded and one of the council members stood. It was his establishment. A single story shop where he sold pastries. “I apologize, brothers. I was not expecting a delivery.”

The others nodded absently, too focused on the matter at hand.

A couple minutes later, a tall dark haired man dressed in the light blue uniform of a local delivery company walked into the back room carrying a cardboard box.

“Who are you?” asked the head of the council, annoyed that the shop owner had let the man in.

“Pardone. Delivery. The signore told me to bring it back to you. A small snack for your gathering, maybe?” the man said in what the council leader thought sounded like an Italian accent. There was a growing Italian population on the other side of town. He’d heard they were refugees from the ongoing mafia wars in southern Italy.

“Fine. Put it on the table,” said the head of the council.

The delivery man smiled and set the large box on the table. He left without saying another word.

+++

Stefano Moretti left the stolen delivery van where he’d parked it across the street from the bakery. He whistled a tune as he walked, his steps light, his eyes focused ahead.

When he was one hundred yards away, Moretti turned around and sat on a low stone wall facing the building he’d left moments before. He extracted his cell phone and tapped the screen. To any passerby the tall Italian looked like one more person fiddling with their phone. A split second later the pastry shop shot skyward in a thunderous boom. The powerful explosives he’d packed under the authentic Italian pastries (his grandmother’s secret recipe) worked to perfection.

Moretti knew from experience there would be no survivors. There would be no witnesses except him. A moment later a car pulled up to the curb and he got in as he put his phone to his ear.

“Yes, my friend. The pastries were a big hit.”

The small sedan tore down the narrow street as sirens wailed in the distance.

+++

Parque Natural Sierra de Maria-Los Velez

Almeria Province, Spain

9:10am, August 17
th

Eduardo Ladicia sped along the park’s dirt road. It was lined with forest pine trees that welcomed him home, tall sentinels standing in reverence. The smell of the pine and the fresh Spanish air coursed through his body, cleansing his soul.

His best friend Hugo rode beside him, equally entranced by the ride. They were home after months away. Gone were the boys they’d been before leaving. Now they were men. Battle tested. Stomachs of stone. The courage of lions.

The dirt bikes were the only mementos they’d brought back. Stolen from a youth hostel just outside Adana, Turkey, the two men in their mid-twenties continued their adventurous journey home. Some nights they slept under the stars. Others they begged for a warm pile of hay in a barn.

They’d made it across the Mediterranean in a modest fishing boat, helping the captain and his sons in exchange for food and a ticket home.

Eduardo was glad to be home. He’d seen and done things that still brought terrors in the night, jolting him awake, hands clenched, heart racing.

As he sped along the empty stretch of road, all the memories seemed to wash away, leaving his heart light once again.

They stopped at a small rise overlooking the valley below, their motorcycles purring as if to say they wanted to keep going forever. Eduardo smiled at his friend.

“Almost home,” he said.

Hugo nodded. “Yes, it will be good to—”

The coming words were shattered by a loud crack followed by an endless red. Eduardo almost fell back off his bike, just managing to reset his foot. His face felt wet.

“What…?” he looked down at his dust stained t-shirt that was now covered in crimson. His heart raced as he looked back at his friend. Hugo was no longer sitting astride his motorcycle.

The bike lay on its side, its rider toppled over, half a bloody head oozing life onto the dirt and rocks beneath it.

In a split second Eduardo’s mind flashed
SNIPER
, and he went to gun his motor, but the round of the .50-cal Barrett sniper rifle was too fast. It tore through Eduardo’s body like a scythe through a stalk of hay.

+++

Owen Fox took his time stowing his new weapon. His fellow Aussies swept the area for any signs of their passing. By the time they left, no one would know they’d been there.

Fox dusted off a blade of grass from the barrel of the high caliber weapon as it went back in its case. In less than a month since he’d acquired the American-made weapon from Cal Stokes, the Australian sniper had ninety two confirmed kills.

The ex-surfer smiled as he set his prized weapon in the back of the open-top jeep. It was time to head back for a well-earned beer to the hotel where they were staying.

Chapter 35

Sofia Airport

Sofia, Bulgaria

6:43pm, August 18
th

Much of Cal’s responsibility had now been passed to other private operators setting up in theatre. He and his men had been the tip of the spear, but their follow-ons were the ones who were now tasked with the ongoing game of terrorist whack-a-mole.

After leaving Iraq, Cal’s men had chased fleeing ISIS troops across the Middle East and Europe. They were killed in airports, taxis and in their hometowns. Now that Neil and the CIA were coordinating with sister agencies around the world, it was almost easy to track down the recruits who’d run to ISIS’s rally call.

Cal knew they’d missed more, but he hoped word was still spreading. Neil was in the process of putting the finishing touches on a video compilation depicting the deaths of foreign fighters. It would go live at midnight, posted in all the usual places that wannabe jihadists trolled online.

The president and Cal were in complete agreement as to the message:
It doesn’t matter where you are or where you hide, we will find you and kill you
.

Cal and Daniel stepped off the airplane and made their way down the long gangway. Stojan Valko and his men were waiting at the ticket counter.

The former rivals shook hands, the respect between them apparent. They’d run through fire and lead together. In a bizarre string of events, they’d become brothers-in-arms.

“Welcome to my country,” said Valko.

“Thanks for the invitation,” said Cal. He’d been anxious to get home and take a much-needed week off, but he couldn’t ignore Valko’s invitation. It had surprised him, and once again proven that warriors, men of proud hearts and limitless courage, could rise above petty misunderstandings and come to respect one another.

The plan was to meet the heads of the Bulgarian government on behalf of President Zimmer tonight, then fly out the next morning. Valko promised to send them home in good cheer, which probably meant there would be a lot of celebratory drinking at tonight’s dinner. What better way to cement the new relationship between allies?

The dinner was as informal as a dinner can be when it’s given in the Bulgarian president’s home. The president was an eloquent man who’d risen first through the ranks of the army, then through the echelons of politics to attain his current post.

Cal learned that the president had been Valko’s sergeant when the gruff Bulgarian had first enlisted. Cal couldn’t help but laugh as the politician told them stories about young Private Valko’s first days of service to the motherland. Luckily Valko laughed along with them, the endless supply of Bulgarian booze no doubt helping.

By the time dessert was served, everyone but Daniel had had their fair share of drinks and food. One of the president’s ministers was snoring loudly in the corner, and another looked like he was about to fall out of his chair. Cal wasn’t drunk, but he was sure he couldn’t put another bite in his mouth. He was stuffed.

“Which way’s the bathroom?” he asked Valko.

The Bulgarian pointed to an ornately carved wooden door in the corner.

“Do not fall in,” said a visibly inebriated Valko.

Cal chuckled and slid back from the table. Maybe a little walk would make room for dessert.

+++

The guard checked the visitor’s identification again. Something seemed familiar, like deja vu. Hadn’t this man already come into the presidential compound? Maybe he’d left while the guard was on break and was now returning. He checked the visitor’s list and there was the name.

He handed the military identification back to the impatient man sitting in the idling Mercedes Benz. Supposedly he was a friend of the president. It said so on the list, and the list had never been wrong.

He shrugged off the unease as the man drove into the complex and found a parking spot in the third row.

+++

Daniel watched the revelry with silent amusement. It was good to see Valko letting off some steam. The Marine knew what it was like to have so much pent up anger simmering inside. For years he’d battled his own demons after leaving the Marine Corps. He understood Valko’s torment, and hoped this was a sign of things to come.

The sniper glanced at his watch. Almost midnight. While he didn’t mind the late hour, he’d hoped to get a couple hours of sleep before morning. By the looks of the men around the expansive table, the festivities were just getting revved up.

Daniel smiled and took another sip of his water.

+++

Bulgaria’s Minister of Foreign Affairs tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. His wife would not be happy that a) he was coming home so late, and b) he was so drunk. It didn’t happen often, but his wife, a strict religious type, always gave him the cold shoulder when he arrived home in such a state.
No sex tonight
, he thought. Unlike the majority of his colleagues, he found his wife extremely alluring. Maybe it was because, in direct contrast to her pious public lifestyle, she was a lioness in the bedroom.

As he neared the stairs leading down to the foyer, the minister heard footsteps coming up. His vision blurry, it took a moment for his eyes to focus.
I must be seeing things
, he thought, chiding himself for drinking too much.

He raised a hand and smiled. “Valko, didn’t I just leave you in the dining room?” the minister asked, his words slurring.

The man didn’t answer, just kept coming closer. The minister tried once again to focus by shaking his head. When he opened his eyes, the man who looked like Stojan Valko was pointing a long pistol at his head. Rather than be alarmed, the minister’s face scrunched in confusion. He’d known Stojan since taking office three years before. The Special Forces soldier was a personal friend of the president. Maybe he was drunk too and playing a prank. The minister giggled.

“Stojan, why are you—”

The two silenced blasts from the Makarov pistol quieted the minister forever. Stepping over the dead foreign minister, Valko’s twin walked toward the dining room.

+++

Cal checked his email after washing his hands in the expansively luxurious bathroom. He was sure the first house he remembered living in when his dad was stationed at Camp Lejeune could’ve fit in there. Why did someone need that many benches and sinks in a private bathroom?

Cal skimmed the messages and smiled at the sound of renewed laugher from the dining room.
I better start drinking water
, he thought as he deleted a message from Neil and then opened one from Diane. They’d kept in regular contact despite his hectic schedule. It was odd to be on the battlefield and still have the ability to connect back home. The luxury was something old veterans never had in Korea, Vietnam or even the First Gulf War.

He read the short note from Diane, imagining how her face might’ve crinkled as she wrote it.

Cal, I’m sorry I missed your call this morning. It’s been crazy around here. I can’t wait to see you when you get back. This time dinner’s on me. Let me know when you can talk on the phone.

- Diane

He reread the note and then tapped on the reply icon. Just as he went to type his response, he heard a commotion from the dining room. It sounded like someone had knocked a plate or a platter off the table.

Cal went to the door and reached for the handle.

+++

It was easier than he’d thought. There wasn’t much that money couldn’t buy. A new suit. A fresh haircut and shave. A duplicate military identification card.

Kiril Valko had found out about his brother’s involvement in Iraq soon after the elder Valko fled to Syria. While jets flew overhead and bombs rattled the ground, Kiril found his brother.

He’d kept periodic tabs on his twin brother. For example, he’d known that Stojan was a Special Forces soldier and that he’d served with the current Bulgarian president. Kiril didn’t know the extent of his brother’s military experience, but he’d found everything he needed once the millions were spent.

The man who’d become The Master had always kept distant contacts within his mother country. There were Islamic sympathizers in almost every government around the world, and currency could always be counted on to loosen their atrophied tongues. If money didn’t work, threats always did.

So he’d connected with an old friend from his time in jail who now worked as a private cook for the Bulgarian National Assembly. Then there were the guards he’d bribed and the assistants he’d blackmailed. Luckily, the president of Bulgaria was inferior to its prime minister, and this allowed easier access for the leader of ISIS. Years of practice honed his craft. Getting to his target was child’s play for the master tactician. Besides, he had a secret weapon.

Kiril didn’t hesitate when he slipped into the room, shooting three of the six men sitting with their backs turned. They fell to the floor, taking stem wear and platters with them.

Those left saw what he held. In his right hand was the pistol. In his left was a trigger, a thin blue wire running from his half unbuttoned shirt where a vest of explosives was strapped to his chest.

The president stared in his drunk stupor much like the minister he’d killed on the landing. His brother glared at him from across the table, the veins in his neck bulging. There was a third. A man with a calm face and snake-like eyes, whose blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. Kiril didn’t know who he was. It didn’t matter.

“Come with me, brother,” said Kiril, grinning at Stojan.

“The guards?” asked Stojan.

“Dead,” lied Kiril. “Come. If we go now, your president may live.”

His brother wasn’t stupid. He might not be as smart as him, but the Bulgarian warrior could see that his older twin meant what he’d said. Besides, the men squirming on the floor had limited time. They would die if they weren’t given medical attention soon.

Stojan rose from his chair, slowly making his way around the disheveled table.

“What do you want?” asked Stojan.

“You will see,” replied Kiril.

+++

Cal listened from the door. He couldn’t understand what either of the men was saying, but he saw the trigger in the man’s hand through the cracked bathroom door. Cal couldn’t see the man’s face, and figured the stranger was some nut job who wanted to kill the president. That was just their luck. Come to Bulgaria for dinner and end up in a life or death confrontation.

Cal quickly examined his options. If the explosive were rigged with a dead man’s switch, he surely had enough to level half the building. That meant Cal couldn’t shoot the guy without risking his life and the lives of the six men in the room.

He bet Daniel was thinking the same thing, and that was why the sniper hadn’t moved. Without another alternative, Cal watched as Stojan Valko approached the intruder.