Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) (44 page)

Not my problem
, Jack thought.
We all do what we must to survive.

“Any signs from the surrounding houses?” Jack asked.

“Negative. All’s quiet. Except for Jamal, of course. He never sleeps.”

Jamal was the nickname they’d given the shooter on the roof of the adjacent home, part of the target’s security precautions. Hamal Qureshi was a moderate voice in the debate with more extreme interpretations of the Koran, a devout cleric respected by many – so much so that his views on the non-orthodoxy of the latest terrorist groups disrupting the Middle East were shaping the dialog on whether they were legitimate or a false flag operation for Western imperialist interests. Dangerous questions to ask, which would be rewarded with a death sentence.

“Probably has a guilty conscience,” Jack mused, “or he’s daydreaming about those fifty-five virgins.”

“I think the number’s seventy-two.”

“Whatever.” Jack checked his watch. “We go live in twenty minutes. Got the flash bangs and the ack-acks ready?”

“You bet. And in this outfit I look like Omar the Tentmaker.” Jack’s crew had been outfitted with local garb, in keeping with the clandestine nature of the assignment. They were to look like locals, terrorists out for blood from a vocal dissenter. The assassination would create outrage in the community and hopefully dampen enthusiasm for criticism. Whether it would work or not was above Jack’s pay grade. He was just the hired help, but good at his job.

“All right. Let’s maintain radio silence until we’re ready to rock. Won’t be long now. Watch your backs.”

Jack signed off and sat back as he watched the decrepit Nissan roll away, trailing exhaust from inadequate combustion. He’d been in town for three days with his crew, watching. Finally it was time – the waiting was the hardest part. He knew from experience that once the shooting started it would be over in a blink; hundreds of thousands of dollars of preparation, arms, papers, all for the two minutes he’d estimated it would take to neutralize Qureshi’s guard and take him out.

The four card players were accounted for – if they tried to get in the mix, he’d off them like a bad habit. Collateral damage was unavoidable in these sorts of incursions. Nature of the beast, Jack thought, and he silently wished them winning hands and the good sense to duck for cover instead of trying to help the cleric.

On the table beside him the satellite phone’s display pulsed, indicating an inbound call. There was only one person who knew the number, and Jack moved swiftly to answer.

“Honey Badger,” he answered softly. The line hissed like a cobra, and then his superior’s unmistakable voice spoke.

“Abort. Repeat, abort.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“We’ve been blown.”

“Blown? How?”

“Just get out of there. It’s over. Someone leaked the details on the web an hour ago – we just heard. Clock’s ticking. Expect the Pakistanis to be serious about nailing you. Do whatever it takes to get away clean.”

“Are you running interference?”

“Yes. That’s why you’re still alive. But you can only stall them so long. Move. Now.”

“Roger that. I’ll call when clear.”

Jack hung up and thought for a moment, then tapped his ear bud again and relayed the news. At the far end of the block a car started its engine and pulled away. Jack didn’t wait to see anything more. His crew were all big boys. They had their crisis protocol down pat, and would each make their way out of the country using different routes.

Thank God he overthought every mission and was hyper-paranoid. Many would have just stuck with the Plan A protocol rather than take the time and money to set up an alternative known only to them. But Jack wasn’t one of the many. The shrapnel and bullet scars were a reminder of that every time he showered.

He quickly dismantled the .50 caliber Barrett that he’d modified for easy disassembly and packed it into a black nylon duffel with the AK and the magazines. Last to go in were the goggles and the balaclava.

Jack was down the stairs and out the door in twenty seconds, and he rushed to the iron front gate as he heard the steady beat of helicopters approaching. So much for stalling. It would be close.

He pushed the gate open and moved hurriedly down the crumbling sidewalk, all subterfuge abandoned. He needed to get out of the area before some bright Pakistani officer established a cordon around the perimeter of the neighborhood to stop anyone from leaving.

At the corner he turned down a gloomy street, the streetlights long ago burned out, and jogged to a Toyota Hilux truck. He slid behind the wheel and tossed the bag onto the passenger side. The cab was dark, its interior bulb removed as a precaution.

It was the little things that could mean the difference between life and death, he knew.

The motor started with a roar and he dropped the transmission in gear. He was two blocks away when he saw the aircraft in his rearview mirror: two helos, their spotlights blinding, beams sweeping over the rooftops of the area he’d just left.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, and fought the urge to floor the gas. If it was his lucky night, he’d make it. If not, well, he couldn’t allow himself to be captured. His hand brushed the grip of the pistol in his belt and he scowled. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but there were worse things than death.

Sirens blared in the distance, and he tried to estimate where they were coming from. If the local cops were in on this, his odds dropped precipitously. Jack’s mind raced over the abbreviated discussion with his control. Someone had posted the details of a top secret black op nobody knew about. What did it mean?

That there was a leak was obvious.

But how could their network have been compromised?

It was impossible.

The howl of a nearby siren insisted it was all too real.

A police truck rounded the corner and accelerated toward him. Jack debated his options as he watched the vehicle draw near in his side mirror, and he was about to stomp on the brakes and put the Hilux into a controlled skid when the police truck screeched onto a side street, its tires howling in protest.

“Easy, Jack,” he whispered. He suddenly wanted a drink more than anything in the world, despite having been dry for a decade. In his mind’s eye he could see the warm amber of the bourbon, smell the tang of the sour mash, taste the searing pleasure as it slid down his throat and warmed him with wellbeing. “Old habits die hard,” he said under his breath, and continued at a moderate pace, ears straining for any indication of pursuit.

On the outskirts of the town he eyed the fuel tank. It was half full, which would easily get him to Peshawar, where he’d lie low for a few days before crossing into Afghanistan. Driving at night in the region was borderline suicidal at the best of times, but he didn’t have much choice.

As reluctant as he was to do it, he stopped near a dumpster and jettisoned his weapons. They would incriminate him, and there was no point in making it easy for those after him. That there would be a manhunt was a given, but nobody would report the guns, instead selling them on the thriving black market and pocketing several months’ living expenses.

With a final look at the road behind him, he climbed behind the wheel and pointed the truck west, toward the Khyber Pass – and hopefully, escape.

Chapter 2

24 hours later, Xishuangbanna, Yunnan Province, China

Christine Whitfield glanced up from her computer monitor as the front door of her boyfriend’s apartment opened. She could immediately see that he was agitated, and something else. His normally placid expression had been replaced by one of fear – an emotion that was out of place on his unlined, twenty-something face.

“What’s wrong, Liu?” she asked. “I thought you were in Guandu till tomorrow.”

“I’ve been driving all day.” He glanced at her monitor. “We have to leave,” he snapped, moving to his notebook computer. “Now.”

“What? Why?”

“I got a tip from a friend. Something went wrong. Grab your computer. Leave nothing behind. I’ve got a taxi waiting downstairs.”

“But where are we going?”

“Thailand. We can disappear there. At least long enough to figure out how bad this is. But assume it’s the worst.”

“At this hour?”

“I called my brother before I got on the road. He’s arranged for a private plane.”

Another look at Liu’s face convinced her. He was dead serious, his eyes wide with alarm. She leapt to her feet and began disconnecting cables. “Who’s after you?” she asked.

“MSS. Ministry of State Security. Or somebody else – could be anyone. Doesn’t really matter what the initials are, does it?”

“But how?”

“I have no idea.” He paused as he finished with his computer, and fixed her with a steady gaze. “We can figure that out later. What I know is that if they get us, we’ll never be seen again.”

“But you haven’t done anything wrong to the Chinese. Why would MSS cooperate?”

“That never stopped them. They’ll invent something. You know how the country works. Anything’s for sale for the right price.”

She shook her head. “Have you told me everything?”

“We can talk about it on the plane. Pack whatever you can, and don’t forget your passport.”

Five minutes later they were on their way to the airport, the taxi driver uninterested in the odd pair – a tall blonde and a local. They watched the buildings fly by as he navigated the empty streets, the radio playing a popular Chinese pop song that had caused a sensation due to its risqué lyrics. Christine was sorely tempted to interrogate Liu, but a glance at him convinced her to wait. She trusted him implicitly, and if he felt they were in danger, right or wrong, she’d follow his lead.

The main section of the airport was closed and the huge glass terminal dark, only a few security guards prowling the grounds. They pulled onto a side access road and through a gate that stood open, and drove to where a half dozen small prop planes sat on the tarmac. At the far end an ancient Cessna 172 had its running lights illuminated, and as they drew near, they spotted a slight Chinese man standing by the fuselage – the pilot.

The taxi coasted to a stop, and Liu and Christine got out. The driver stepped from the car and moved to the trunk, lighting a cigarette as he did so. Smoking was the national pastime in China, and despite the health consequences the population had one of the highest rates in the world. He opened the trunk and they retrieved their bags. Liu handed him a few bills, and he smiled and offered a small bow before returning to his vehicle and driving off.

“Wasn’t it a risk to take a cab?” Christine whispered as they approached the plane.

“We had no choice. I couldn’t use my car. They may be looking for it by now.”

“And you have no idea why the MSS would be after you?”

“I do. But there’s nothing I can change at this point.”

She stopped in her tracks. “What have you done, Liu? Is this related to our thing?”

“Only tangentially. I think I underestimated the sophistication of their tech people.”

“What does that mean?”

He explained in a few terse sentences. By the time he was done, the blood had drained from her face.

“Liu…”

“Too late now, Christine. But do you see why we need to get out of here?”

“That’s the understatement of the year. You really think we’ll be safe in Thailand?”

“We can disappear, Christine. There are thousands of places off the beaten path.”

“And what about money? After you run out?”

“Least of our problems. We could survive for a year on that in rural Thailand. Even cheaper in Cambodia.”

She gave him a skeptical look.

“Don’t worry. I have ways of getting more.”

“We’re about to take a secret night flight over the Golden Triangle, and you’re telling me not to worry? Are you serious?”

Liu stepped nearer. “Keep your voice down. For all we know the pilot speaks English, too. A byproduct of your capitalist running dog lackey television shows.”

She couldn’t help but smile, and was reminded of why she’d fallen so hard for him. He was blindingly smart, loyal, handsome, and charming in a roguish way. Tall for a Chinese, due to his family’s northern blood, he stood almost six feet, with a slacker mop of longish hair and stylish Western clothes. At twenty-nine he still looked like he was barely out of his teens, and she marveled again at how brilliant he was, as well as how unassuming – a powerfully attractive combination, Christine thought.

They neared the plane and Liu greeted the pilot. After a brief discussion about discreet destinations in Thailand and the route they’d fly, they agreed on Chiang Mai, near the Laos and Myanmar border, in northern Thailand – well away from the madding crowds. The pilot loaded their things into the small hold and they climbed aboard, Liu taking the co-pilot’s seat and Christine in the rear. After a few moments, the starter groaned and the engine burbled to life.

The pilot requested clearance from the tower, and after receiving it, taxied to the runway and accelerated along the smooth strip, rising into the sky before they were halfway down its length. They bounced from turbulence as the plane gained altitude, and eventually settled into a droning cruise at eight thousand feet.

The mountains and jungle beneath them were pitch black, no trace of humanity to be seen to the horizon. The pilot altered course to skirt pendulous clouds to the east, heavy with rain, and Christine leaned forward and yelled to Liu over the engine noise.

“How long will it take to get there?” she asked.

Liu translated and the pilot shrugged after tapping the air speed indicator. “Maybe two hours, maybe a little longer. There’s a headwind, so probably more.”

Liu relayed the information to Christine and returned his gaze to the pilot. “Do you fly this area often?” Liu asked.

The pilot’s expression turned cagey. “From time to time.”

“No problem with Chinese or Myanmar airspace?”

The pilot shook his head. “No. At this altitude we’re unlikely to raise any alarms. The locals are used to unidentified flights around here. There are many dirt airstrips due to the heroin trade. The governments destroy them periodically, and within a week new ones are cut from the brush. It’s been going on forever.”