Ready to Kill (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

Just before 1800 hours, Nathan and Harv rode out to the flight line in a Corporate Helicopters shuttle cart.

Like Nathan, Harv maintained himself in top physical condition. Half-Hispanic, half-white, Harv was a handsome man. Behind a tan complexion, his light-hazel eyes and graying hair gave him a distinguished look. Although Harv wouldn’t take it as an insult, Nathan thought his friend looked like a politician.

They exchanged smiles when they saw their ride. Its engines whining with power, the white Challenger was a beautiful jet and looked to be about sixty feet long. The first officer introduced herself and asked to see their IDs. She took a little too long looking at Nathan’s face but recovered with a warm smile. She told them the flight would take a little under five hours with a local arrival time of 0200 hours. She showed them the amenities, gave them a safety briefing, and disappeared into the cockpit. He and Harv settled into their seats and buckled up. Five minutes later they were climbing into a twilight sky and turning east.

Nathan resolved to try to get some sleep but didn’t feel optimistic. Unpleasant memories kept surfacing.
Mind over matter
, he told himself and took another look at the booze cabinet.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Huh?”

“You keep glancing at the liquor cabinet.”

“You’d never let me do it.”

“You got that right.”

Nathan grinned. “Think you could take me?”

Harv issued a half laugh. “You’re falling apart at the seams. You may be four inches taller and outweigh me by forty pounds, but I know all your vulnerable spots. It’d be over in ten seconds.”

“Sounds like your bedroom.”

“Hey, watch it. Besides, I’m good for at least two minutes with Candace.”

“How often are you getting it?”

“More than you.”

Nathan waited, trying not to smile.

“Okay, lately? Hardly ever. I’ve been guaranteed a minimum of three times a year. Christmas, my birthday, and Groundhog Day.”

“Groundhog Day?”

“It’s best if you don’t ask . . .”

“What did you tell Candace about this sudden excursion?”

“I told her it has something to do with an old mission and that it’s just housekeeping—which hopefully, isn’t far from the truth. She didn’t like it, but she’s okay. She knows the acronym we used to work for.”

They enjoyed a companionable silence for a few minutes.

“This is a nice ride,” Harv said, reclining his leather seat a little. “These things go horizontal for snoozing. I could get seriously spoiled flying this way.”

“I’m gonna grab a water, you want one?”

“I do. Thanks.”

Nathan unbuckled and raided the small refrigerator near the lavatory. He chose two sparkling waters.

“Do you think Cantrell’s going to meet us at Dulles?” Harv asked.

“Yeah, I do.”

“At zero two hundred?”

“She basically ordered us to drop everything and respond. It would be bad form to send a driver or make us take a cab somewhere.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m going to crash for a few. I know you have a hard time sleeping on planes, but try to get some shut-eye anyway.”

“Thanks, Harv, I will. I’ll wake you when we start our descent.”

Nathan knew there was no point in further speculation about the face-to-face meeting. He’d have his answer in a few hours. He closed his eyes and reclined his chair. If he fell asleep, he hoped he wouldn’t dream of Nicaragua.

A sudden jolt awoke Nathan. Feeling disoriented, he quickly sat up and looked around. The bump he’d felt was the landing.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I can’t believe I fell asleep. You?”

“A couple of hours, you know the adage . . .”

“Sleep when you can.”

The Challenger turned off the runway and began taxiing.

“It’s really tempting to time-share one of these jets,” Harv said, “but it would be hard to justify.”

“I was thinking the same thing, but as little as we fly, it wouldn’t make economic sense. It’s infinitely cheaper flying commercial everywhere.”

Nathan and Harv owned a highly profitable private-security company. They’d founded First Security Inc. a few years after they’d retired from the CIA. Their firm specialized in sophisticated alarm systems and countersurveillance measures for homes and businesses. They also taught personal-security awareness and tactical-combat classes to VIPs and corporate executives. So far, they’d done extremely well. Last year, Harv started an armored SUV line, and he’d already secured a five-vehicle contract with three more big clients ready to sign.

“Well, at least you didn’t have to go through a TSA checkpoint. I know how much you love doing that, Nate.”

“It’s not that bad—it just makes me want to break a few arms.”

Harv smiled. “You’ve come a long way. Twenty years ago, you would’ve wanted to break a few
necks
.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Nathan heard his phone chime with a text message.

How was your flight?

Very nice, thx
. . .
Are you meeting us?

Yes. I’m inside the Dulles Jet Center. See you in a few.

“Cantrell?” Harv asked.

“She’s waiting for us in the jet center.”

“Good call.”

“Well, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure.”

When the Challenger stopped in the transient parking area, the first officer emerged from the cockpit and lowered the fuselage door, which also served as a ladder. They grabbed their overnight bags, complimented the crew on a pleasant flight, and stepped down to the tarmac. A jet center employee escorted them over to the automatic glass doors.

Director Cantrell was waiting inside with two men—presumably operations officers doubling as bodyguards. Both men wore business suits and had small ear speakers with lapel mikes. Cantrell was dressed in a dark pants suit. In her early fifties, her shoulder-length brown hair had a touch of gray. She stood at least a foot shorter than Nathan but possessed a commanding presence. Harv and he approached Cantrell and shook hands. Introductions were made. Nathan noticed that the woman behind the jet center’s counter seemed to recognize Cantrell. When the woman made eye contact with Nathan, he winked. She forced a smile and quickly averted her eyes.

“It’s good to see you guys,” Cantrell said. “Thank you for coming.”

“Glad to do it, Rebecca. You’re working late.”

“I’m on graveyard for a spell. We’ve got an operation going on the other side of the world. We’re about to collar a major bad guy.”

“Aren’t you in more of a political position?” Harv asked.

“I’ve been resisting it.” She smiled, then gave each of them a look, up and down. “You guys look sharp.”

“Five Eleven Tactical line,” Nathan said.

“It looks good on you.”

“Thank you.” Nathan wanted to ask what was going on but knew it had to wait until they were clear of any potential eavesdropping equipment.

“We’re parked out front,” she said. They began walking toward the street-side entrance. At the door, Rebecca stopped and let the two operations officers leave the building. Nathan watched them through the glass as they visually searched the immediate area. One of them spoke into his lapel mike.
Tight security
, he thought. The director of the CIA was undoubtedly in the crosshairs of countless assassins, with al-Qaeda fanatics topping the list. Although he gave it low odds, a sniper could be out there. He suspected Cantrell was being guarded by at least six officers at any given time—some of them they’d never see.

Rebecca acknowledged nods from her men, and they stepped through the doors.

Two charcoal-gray SUVs waited at the curb. Nathan noticed the ballistic glass right away. No doubt they were fully armored with environmental protection from gas or biological attacks.

“Does it wear you out? The twenty-four-seven security?” Nathan asked.

“You kind of get used to it, but to answer your question, at times, yes.”

An officer slid out of the driver’s seat, surveyed the immediate area, and opened the rear door of the second SUV. Rebecca thanked her, and they got in. Behind the soundproof glass separating them from the driver’s compartment, two sets of opposing seats greeted them. One of the officers they’d met inside the jet center got into the back with them; the other climbed into the passenger seat of the lead SUV, and they were on their way.

“Why are we here, Rebecca?” Nathan asked. “And why you? Whatever the situation is, it’s got to be below your pay grade.”

“This requires my personal involvement.”

Nathan waited.

“As you’ve surmised, we have a development in Nicaragua. Video cameras at the US embassy in Managua recorded a man throwing a paper airplane over the fence. The marines guarding the post didn’t approach it. They were concerned it might’ve been laced with something. I’ve seen the surveillance video, and it’s obvious the man had purposely disguised himself. He appeared to be Latino with dark hair, probably a wig, oversized dark sunglasses, ball cap—you get the picture. His size and build are consistent with ninety percent of men on the planet. Here’s where it gets cryptic, and it’s the reason I asked you guys to come out here. The note had only ten words.”

She pulled a folded piece of paper from her coat pocket and handed it to Nathan.

ECHO FOUR: YOUR HELP IS NEEDED. RAVEN IS ACTIVE AGAIN.

Nathan looked at Harv but didn’t say anything.

“Echo four was Harvey’s designation,” Cantrell said. “You were Echo five. I’m hoping you guys can give me something on the raven reference.”

Nathan didn’t say anything. He looked at the man sitting next to Cantrell.

“You can speak freely. Bill’s my personal assistant, and he’s been thoroughly briefed on the Echo program.”

“Raven was the best shooter we trained down there.”

CHAPTER 5

“Give me everything, Nathan. I want to know all there is to know about this man. Being trained by you makes him extremely lethal. I’m assuming he graduated and didn’t wash out?”

“Yes, he graduated.” Nathan said. “I remember him well.
We
remember him well. We had our doubts about Raven, but we didn’t pick him for the program. That decision was made by his commanding officer, a lieutenant, as I recall. As you know, the candidate selection process was kept secret, even from us. Not just anyone could enlist in the program. Over a five-month period, our recruits underwent an intensive program designed to make them proficient in hand-to-hand combat, small arms, IEDs, surveillance, and countersurveillance. We also taught basic field-interrogation technique, tracking, and stealth, you name it. When our recruits finished the program, they had the equivalent of recon training with a strong emphasis on sniper skills. They didn’t come to us green, they were hardened Contra rebels who’d been fighting a nasty civil war against the Sandinista regime. They already knew much of what we taught them. We just sharpened their skills.”

“Since no paper exists on any of this, I’m relying on my memory, but I don’t recall reading anything about a code name ‘Raven.’”

“That’s right. You wouldn’t have,” Harv said. “We gave all of our recruits nicknames. The CIA teams were called Echo units, and the Contra teams were kilo units. But we found calling them K1, K2, K3, and so on was too impersonal. We spent five months with them.”

“So Raven was a shooter, not a spotter?”

“That’s right,” Nathan said. “And a good one. He had the gift. It’s hard to explain how some people just have what it takes to be shooters. I never doubted he’d make it through. He was in great condition, had all the physical prerequisites, and had a good mindset
. . .
Maybe a little too good.” Nathan looked at Harv, then said, “I can’t swear it happened, but when he made his first kill, his face lit with
. . .
I don’t know
. . .
exhilaration, I guess.”

“The guy smiled,” Harv said. “There was no guessing about it. No one ever smiles. We’ve seen men become everything from withdrawn to physically ill over their first kill. This guy loved it.”

“Harv and I don’t necessarily agree on this. It’s the Mona Lisa question—is she smiling or not?”

“I know what I saw,” Harv said.

“You’re saying he enjoyed it?”

“In my opinion, he absolutely did.”

“While you were flying out here, I reread many of your mission reports from pre-Nicaraguan ops, and it’s clear: you always expressed regret at the actual taking of a human life. You were damned good at your jobs, but you didn’t like pulling the trigger.”

“Rebecca,” Nathan said, “we’re getting into personal introspection here that I’m uncomfortable talking about.”

“Before Bill became an operations officer, he spent several years with the ATF as a special response team sniper.”

Nathan raised a brow.

“Two,” Bill said.

Rebecca continued. “I also read your report on the emotional aspect of being a shooter.”

“You’re talking about the second kill being the hardest?” Nathan asked.

“You both agreed the second kill was more difficult, because it meant you were willing to do it again.”

Nathan looked out his window before refocusing on Cantrell. “We can’t speak for anyone else, but that was true for us. Our first kill went by in a blur. It didn’t
. . .
I don’t know, seem real. It almost felt like we were acting in a play. It took us a few days to decompress and really think about what we’d done. When we went out for the second op, it felt different
. . .
like a job, I guess. Every sniper has to deal with the job in their own way. There’s no book to consult on the psychological impact of being a shooter. Is it cowardly to kill someone who has no clue he’s about to die? Is it fair? What
is
fair in war? Harv and I have talked about this at great length, and we’ve concluded that we saved American, coalition, and civilian lives. If a friendly position is being overrun and the commander on the ground calls in an airstrike, is that a cowardly act? In our opinion, it’s clearly not. That commander used an available asset to save the lives of his troops and hold his position. There’s an undeniable callousness associated with being a sniper, because it’s up close and personal through the scope. You just have to disconnect from it. Think of it like an emotion switch that you turn off and on like a light. To make a kill, you disengage by turning the switch off.”

“It’s not unique to snipers,” Harv added. “Think about the crew of an Ohio: if they didn’t emotionally disengage, they’d never be able to launch their Tridents. The same thing applies to artillerymen, fighter pilots, you name it.”

Bill nodded in agreement. It was clear he understood the concept.

“Raven’s switch was always on, but he had no problem pulling the trigger.”

“So why didn’t you wash Raven out?” Cantrell asked.

Nathan looked out his window again. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t ask.

“Look, I’m not trying to second-guess you guys, but it’s a fair question.”

“We created hardened and efficient killers. That was our assignment. If I’d insisted, I could’ve sent him down the road, but truthfully, I liked him. He was a good combat soldier, and I trusted him.”

Harv jumped in. “In 1990 when the Sandinistas lost political power, most of rural Nicaragua was very much like our early Wild West. The government had little or no control over the remote areas. There were leftover Sandinista warlords committing horrible atrocities against civilians in those mountains. Anyone perceived as a Contra sympathizer, whether they were or not, was rounded up, tortured, slaughtered, and buried in mass graves. Our job was to teach the kilo teams how to take out the warlords without collateral damage to the civilian population. We were in a time-critical situation.”

“Understood,” said Cantrell. “As always, circumstances dictated what we had to do. Many powerful people in the media and on Capitol Hill wanted Reagan’s head on a platter. I was neck-deep in Operation Echo. Atrocities against the civilian population took a sharp nosedive. There’s no way to definitively gauge how many lives you guys saved down there, but it’s probably in the hundreds, if not thousands.”

Nathan nodded. “Thanks for saying that, Rebecca. We did our jobs as best we could. I don’t like the idea of Raven misusing or selling his skills
. . .
if that’s what’s going on.”

“All we know is what’s written on that piece of paper, and it isn’t much. Not surprisingly, there were no fingerprints. I think it’s fair to assume whoever threw that note over the fence wanted to get our attention, and he succeeded. I also think it’s reasonable to assume he’ll make contact again.”

“So how do we fit in?”

“When I said you’re never retired, I was speaking figuratively, not literally. I can’t force you to do anything, but I think I know you guys pretty well. If Raven’s gone bad, he’ll have to be dealt with, and the job should be yours.”

“Because we trained him.”

“I’m not saying that, and I don’t think it’s fair to you. If a cop goes bad, no one blames the academy instructors. It’s more a matter of who’s best suited to handle this. I don’t need to tell you how dangerous he could be if he’s aligned himself with a criminal organization like a cartel or gang.”

“Agreed,” said Nathan. “If he’s become a gun for hire, he’s more than capable of taking out VIP targets.”

“Which is all the more reason to deal with this quickly to avoid any kind of Raven-CIA connection. Do either of you have any idea who our mysterious messenger might be?”

Nathan shook his head. “Not immediately. It’s interesting he used only Harv’s designation, though.”

Harv added, “I think it’s reasonable to assume we’ve either met him or know him.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“Nathan doesn’t exactly have the fondest memories of that place. Neither do I. You’re asking a lot, especially of Nathan.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Harv looked at Nathan. “There’s also a possibility this whole thing is a trap.”

“I’m aware of that too. I’ll be able to give you limited support, but metaphorically, don’t call in any air strikes. Also, you may not discuss this with your families. Nothing goes any further than the two of you.”

“So what’s next?” asked Nathan.

“You guys are in the Hyatt tonight. Sit tight for now, but be ready to deploy at a moment’s notice. When we’re ready to move, I’ll send you a text on this.” Cantrell reached down to the floor and came back up with a plain cardboard box about the size of a hardcover novel. “It’s a special phone that comes with a few important rules. Always keep it on, and keep it with you. And never let its charge drop below thirty percent. If it falls below thirty percent, it erases itself and becomes unusable. It has a special battery that should last for three days if you don’t use it too much. It also monitors and records your GPS coordinates in real time. If you lose track of it, let me know right away. We can remotely kill it. There are also instructions on how to erase it. It doesn’t store recent calls or have a contact list, so you’ll have to enter all phone numbers manually. It also has no voice mail. We either speak live or text.”

Nathan and Harv nodded.

“I’ll text you if you don’t answer. If you call me and I don’t answer right away, give it ten rings before hanging up. I’m either on the phone or unavailable. I’ll see that you attempted a call, and I’ll get back to you ASAP. In the event the phone falls into the wrong hands or you’re being coerced, we’ll need a code word. It will be the first thing you say to me after I answer. If I hear any other word, I’ll hang up and kill it. Pick a word, something uncommon, anything you like.”

Harv thought for a moment. “How about
. . .
chromium.”

“That works. It’s an international phone, so it will work in Nicaragua. Memorize Bill’s cell number, just in case you can’t reach me.” She gave them the number, an easy one to remember because only the last four digits were different from Cantrell’s.

A brief silence ensued as Cantrell pulled out her cell, looked at the screen, and tucked it away.

“We passed the Hyatt a few minutes ago,” Nathan said.

“You don’t miss much.”

“Neither do you, Rebecca.”

After dropping McBride and Fontana off at the entrance to the Hyatt, Rebecca Cantrell moved to the opposite side of the passenger compartment so she could face Bill Stafford.

“What did you think of him?” she asked.

“McBride? He’s hard to read, but the word capable comes to mind.”

“That’s a good assessment.”

Bill shook his head.

“What?”

“Those scars on his face
. . .
People must stare.”

“I’m sure they do. He doesn’t like being in public much. But I have a feeling he’d be reclusive even without the scars. He fits the profile of an operations officer perfectly; it’s why I handpicked him for Echo. He and Harvey were ideal for the job. It was my brainchild. I built and operated the program. I’ve never told McBride and Fontana, but I suspect they know. The Reagan administration wanted to stop the atrocities being committed against the Contras and their families, but they didn’t know how to do it. When I proposed surgical strikes using sniper teams, they loved the idea but didn’t want the risk of having Americans on the ground in Nicaragua. We compromised by training Contra teams in neighboring Honduras. I can’t help but feel a shared responsibility for what happened to McBride.”

“You mean his capture and interrogation?”

She looked out the window. “I should’ve pulled them out of there sooner.”

“That’s the problem with hindsight, it’s always twenty-twenty.”
Bill thought for a moment. “For what it’s worth, they were dead-on about how it feels becoming a sniper. When I got home after my first kill, I was physically ill. I’d never shot anyone. Nothing Judy said to me that night helped. The guy was a first-class turd and deserved a bullet, but it bothered me for a long time. I guess it still does.”

“Imagine multiplying that by a factor of sixty.”

“I can’t.”

They went silent for a few miles. Cantrell liked that about Bill—he didn’t ruin the quiet moments with small talk. McBride and Fontana were the same way.

“I didn’t tell them, but we’ve already heard back from our messenger. He’s requested a face-to-face.”

Bill didn’t say anything.

“I wanted a read on them first. I’m planning to tell them tomorrow morning.”

“Do you think they suspect you’re holding back?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m assuming it’s going to be reconnaissance only? They meet with the messenger, determine what’s going on, and report back to you? You aren’t expecting them to engage, are you?”

“No, they aren’t operations officers anymore. Don’t get me wrong. They’re still capable, but for obvious reasons, we can’t risk them falling into the wrong hands. Besides, they’d never allow themselves to be captured, but I doubt it would come to that. I agree with Fontana’s thought: they’ll likely be meeting with someone they already know.”