SAFE HAVENS: Shadow Masters (A Sean Havens Black Ops Novel Book 1) (3 page)

Havens had been unsuccessful in developing a quick turnaround puppet proxy to do the deed in his stead. Unfortunately, the buck stopped with the operator on the ground to make things work. Therefore, Sean was left holding the bag.

In theory, his targeted attack would be enough of a catalyst to cause a surge of social discontent and finger-pointing in the city, which would create opportunities for other follow-up missions, no doubt in the works, but out of Havens’ need-to-know.

Stir the pot and kick it over. Let someone else clean up the mess.

Al Qaeda’s Yemeni membership was among the largest in the region. The ongoing strife in Yemen had specifically provided Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, or AQAP, a safe haven for their base of operations. For AQAP, that meant it could plan, recruit, train, and operate with near impunity. The exploitable Yemeni social differences of sect, tribe, and class, combined with weak central rule and ungoverned spaces had fostered a complex enablement system for both separatists and jihadist rebels.

Impunity went so far. Now they had an adversary walking on their terrain bidding to do them harm. Sean Havens was good at strategically starting fights.

This trip to Yemen, for Havens, was about smoking out a few of those high priority targets located in the Sana’a, Abyan, Shawba, and Aden provinces. The end state objective was to stoke more requests for the U.S. to re-establish a greater presence in the country. That allowed the U.S. to have more say in the Yemeni government and could increase support for more military staging to monitor regional activities. Politics as usual, but that was the name of the game.

Havens contemplated again how his makeshift plan would go down. He was compartmentalizing his mind to focus on the mission while keeping vigilant of the prospective tail pursuing him.

It’s got to be a superficial wound. Go with a belly slice first. Thin cut. Target grabs his belly instinctively. Shirt soaks with blood fast, stains hands, makes it look worse. That enough?

Havens watched people as they passed, looking them up and down identifying their viable attack points that could be applied to his primary target if he decided to change his mind again on where to strike.

I still need to go with the head. Rapid slash on the forehead. The brow’s bright red blood flow is best due to shallow blood vessels. Traumatic image for witnesses. That will be good. Blood flow will also blind and confuse the victim. Complete sensory shock. Overwhelm emotions and stage an effect for the crowd. Good, good.

Satisfied with his choices, Havens continued observing his surroundings with all senses alert.

Why must they eat things in the morning that smell like ass? They should fry up some bacon. That would taste sooo good right now.

A wry smile crossed Havens’ lips. Pork here in an overwhelmingly Muslim population was a stupid thought, even for self-talk.

OK, turkey bacon.

He continued along the route that he had reconnoitered the morning before. And the morning before that. He needed to change his route some to see if he was actually being followed. His instincts said he was clear, but his training ordered him to make sure.

Need a crowd opening near a good blocking object so I can spot any bogie on my six.

Most passersby hurried along minding their own business. Havens mirrored the direct smiles and occasional nods of the men walking by.

“Sabah al-khair.” Good morning.

“Sabah an-noor.”
Right back atcha Ali.

“Salaam,” a particularly toothless individual greeted, upon a casual but innocent bump in the crowd.

Havens replied back with a smile and a nod bringing his hand to his heart, “Wa alaikum assalaam.”

He wondered if they were greeting him or actually acknowledging his traditional shilan headwear that, by its symbolic design and colors, signified his family lineage to a local. Something as simple as headcover to feign a particular sect, geographical area, and social status coupled with other carefully selected details and mannerisms gained immediate legitimacy with a glance.

Havens had planned for most every contingency in such a manner. Seconds counted, and he would take all the seconds that he could get in order to buy time to act or react.

He noticed fewer of the younger males wearing headwear since the last time he was here four years earlier. Many were now even wearing western hats.

You hate us but want to wear our hats,
he said to himself, spotting a Somali immigrant wearing a Detroit Tigers cap
. Magnum P.I. Sammy style. Nice.

A group of merchants brushed past, almost knocking Havens into the large vats of spices that lined this area of the souk. He did a casual body check visually and with his hands to see if he had been pickpocketed, shot, or stabbed.

It was instinct.

The flock of jabbering men didn’t apologize for the accidental hip check. They appeared to be arguing, but Sean Havens knew this was typical chatter and debate. It was one of the many cultural intelligence nuances he grasped. It was a necessity to understand people he dwelled among or hunted.

Havens stopped to examine some fresh dates on display. He moved around the stall so he could get a look to his rear. A professional tracking him would already have broken the pursuit to feign an innocuous activity. A thug killer would freeze and stand like a deer in headlights.

It was the same the world over. He scanned his rear. No deer behind him.

Coffee would be good right now. Maybe around the next souk market stall there will be a big green Starbucks sign. Nope. Golden arches perhaps? I’d even drink a foofie latte.

What does Christina drink? Caramel…macchiato…extra syrup, but non-fat. Skinny. Tastes like dessert.
His wife and he had opposite tastes. He preferred bitter. Havens slowed his gait for a moment as he turned.

Is that him? Need a better look.

He turned to another row of stalls and vendors just off the cobblestone path.

Qat was just arriving in one of these areas. Bundles of the basil-like plant were sliding down a makeshift human conveyor belt to be distributed in the market and throughout the town for the day’s upcoming social chew.

Havens cut through a line of parked delivery trucks adjacent to the stalls and emerged at a small arms stall displaying Kalashnikovs on the walls. Other obsolete and antiquated Soviet gear, WWII-era British Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifles, German H&K G-3 rifles, and 1970s vintage multinational arms were strewn about the small shop. Boxes of ammunition lay all around. Some weapons were bashed, most scratched, and all seemed to have never been touched in terms of maintenance or serious cleaning by their users.

These guys should clean ‘em up and make a mint on eBay as collectibles. Unbelievable how many weapons still flow here without interdiction.
As he passed, he looked around the stall out of amused curiosity to see who may have a laptop for enterprising profit.

No computer. Guess no one feels too entrepreneurial around here.

Illicit arms schemes occurred in and around the Aden complex in the south, al-Hudayda along the Red Sea coast, Al-Mukalla in the east and al-Mukha and al-Salif along the Red Sea. It was a hornet’s nest of activity but the really bad guys had gone quiet. The United States needed to get things cooking again. Citizens back home didn’t understand the world’s threats like arms flow and dangerous nation states or religious alliances unless they could graphically visualize the ramifications on their televisions or iPads. That meant seeing blood, death, and street-filled revolts. If mayhem was not apparent, someone like Havens needed to make it more visible.

Havens turned again.

Someone else passed between the trucks.

That someone walked with less purpose than the other workers near the stalls. To Havens this meant a surveillance asset was on him and it probably was not an assassination attempt. It eased him back into relative comfort for just a moment or two more.

Nope, no McDonalds here either…Not that I really want McDonalds…But pancakes…That could be good…That would be real good…Oh, I wish I hadn’t thought of that…Change thoughts…Smelly ass old man cooking chai and stinking ass breakfast food? Mmmm…sorghum bread…that actually does smell good…Where was that bread smell coming from?

Where is this asshole? Can’t engage my target with a hot tail. No one should be following me. Shit! I don’t need this today.

Now distracted, Havens slipped up on his field tradecraft and lifted his left arm to look down at a watch that wasn’t there. He knew it was almost time but cursed himself for the novice error.

This whole op’s been a shit show from the get-go.

Really? I’m supposed to ID and penetrate the Yemeni underground in a week? Never mind any complex social aspects, personalities, money flow, or ideology not worn on every Yemeni’s shirtsleeve. I’ll just walk right in to the big black bad guy house on the corner labeled ‘No good guys’ on the door. Just knock with a shave and a haircut code and say, “Hi guys, playin’ cards? Can I play?” Boom!

Never mind the fact that military intel or the other spooks couldn’t do it. Just send fuckin’ Havens. He’s smart. He can do it. He doesn’t matter. He’s got nothing to lose.

Ridiculous. Got your Saudis funding Yemen’s Sunnis, Iran giving cash and guns to Zaydi tribes. Bad horse pick either way you go.

God forbid anyone read what I reported on this over a year ago. We could have actually planned something.

Despite the task in Yemen being against the odds, Sean Havens was a natural at doing it right and getting away with it.

Sean ducked into a dark tight crevice between stacks of boxes and crates to see who was following. He pulled his own engineered device, a half-sized field syringe with a squeeze pump instead of a thumb stick plunger, and a quarter inch needle vice the longer traditional ones of a doctor’s shot. It could be pushed at all angles and still deliver the barbiturate mix of Azaperone and Immobilon tranquilizers.

Lights out.

This calls for a little Dexter Morgan spec ops style.

His concentration was shattered for a moment as the inner ear cavity communication sounded off. “Blackswan 6 we lost your movement on overwatch. How copy?”

Havens reached into his ear and pinched enough of the latex with his fingernails to withdraw the device. He dropped it on the ground and crushed it under his foot. He didn’t care if it was found. It was French-made. Procured for that very purpose.

Fuck overwatch. Screw the French.

Havens worked alone. No babysitters. No distractions. No mess-ups that could not be fixed quickly.

His tail was draped in traditional garb that cloaked what appeared to be a large frame as he passed less than a minute later. Havens couldn’t make much more out without being obvious. Too tough to tell who it could be. As Havens hoped, the tail stopped for a moment to reorient position and target location. The tail started again heading towards Havens’ hidden position. The man would pass right by in seconds with any luck.

I need you off my ass for good. No more cat and mouse games.

Syringe in hand, he swiftly grabbed the tail from behind and drove the needle into the man’s tricep while squeezing the homemade venom into the meaty arm. It wasn’t an ideal injection point but it was close enough for the potent drug cocktail. Havens wrapped his arm under the tail’s chin in a half-sleeper hold and twisted his own hip for leverage while he lowered his center of gravity by bending knees and dropping ass as the knockout drug took its effect on the victim.

C’mon, c’mon. Work, dammit! Let it go. Holy shit, you’re stronger than I imagined.

The tail tried to struggle and push back but Havens was firmly rooted and stabilized to thwart any resistance.

Ahhh. There you are.

Good night, John-boy!

Chapter 2

A
s the target went limp, Havens couldn’t help the feeling of exposure and uneasiness as he settled the man to the ground gently without raising too much attention from those walking around him.

Three things were just not right in his mind. One, the tricep he dosed was firm and well developed. In this town of scrawny men, firm and developed meant security, military, or foreigner. The guy’s back was solid muscle. Two, the back of the man’s haircut had been recently squared and his neck had been shaved. That validated his hunch that the dude was military. Three, this guy didn’t smell bad. Everyone in Yemen smelled, even Havens, but this dude smelled of French milled hotel soap and deodorant. Foreigner. Maybe Havens’ own tribe—an American.

Despite his mind jesting and complaining of the environment, Havens had immediately felt remorseful in another compartment of his brain right after his initial musings about the Arabs left his mind’s tongue and touched his inner soul.

His soul still breathed the richness of life amidst the heavy scarring of his professional career. He kind of liked the Middle Eastern market smells and often missed those aromas when he was back CONUS.

Home in Chicago.

And sure, the smell of perspiration, stale dust, heat, and ethnic spices were at times less than appealing, but admittedly, he liked that too. It was different. It was what made the world and people interesting to Sean Havens.

He really didn’t feel disdain at all for the Muslims walking around him seeking deals, buying specialty items of the day, or just walking about to see or be seen. He loved them. He understood them. He respected them, their history, and their customs. Their habits both amused and intrigued him.

That was all part of his job—to plan, understand, anticipate, adapt, execute, and vanish. Therefore, he had selected a location for his and his family’s residence that was far from the shadow world. Far from military affiliation. Far from black helicopters and black SUVs carrying sunglass-adorned suits with bulging side masses from the artillery they carried to protect themselves and their cargo.