SAFE HAVENS: Shadow Masters (A Sean Havens Black Ops Novel Book 1) (6 page)

Ever since Maggie was born, Havens had his daughter in the jogging stroller all along the lakefront and anything else with a path or pavement. He would push her in the stroller to the store, to restaurants for evening carryout, and take her to sports events she was too young to understand or care about. Christina knew her husband was broken now and her anger quickly turned to calmly informing him and assuring him of her improving condition.

She knew his mind was reeling and detailed what the police had shared.

She expressed their current state of concern with the text threat that they had received. The threat element broke Havens out of his helpless trance. He watched a spider crawling up the cracked plaster wall. He could hear his wife’s voice but didn’t know what she was saying. His daughter was hurt. Hurt by another man.

“Sean, we need you home right now. When can you be home? Get those people to get you home now. I know you will do whatever you can, but get home now.”

Still in utter shock, Havens assured his wife he would start his journey back immediately and would keep her posted. He was concerned that the police were not keeping a closer eye on his family, but evidently their concern did not warrant a protective detail. It occurred to him that in the entire special mission unit and intel entities’ OPSEC they didn’t consider the families left behind while the husband was away.

Havens would make a few calls and get his own protective detail over to the house. He would call some hunters to get started on the rapist. His fears turned to fury. Sean Havens flipped the switch back from father to hunter and the predator would become the prey.

I am going to turn the whole motherfucking world over on you. You’re dead. You’re fucking dead! I will fucking rip you apart. Kick in your door and fucking tear you up, motherfucker.

Havens dialed another number. The line picked up.

“Get me out of here NOW!”

Chapter 6

H
avens waited alone with his thoughts, fears, and guilt for about a minute before he broke out paper and a pen and started outlining what Christina had shared with him.

Three hours had passed before there was a knock at the door. In that time he had detailed the scenarios by which he could kill the rapist and lend plausible deniability to himself. It was a good plan. He just needed to learn who did it or get a whiff of a trial. The rest could be augmented and modified on the fly.

The original exfiltration plan was to use the same false persona cover legend as when he entered the country from Saudi Arabia to Yemen, but now departing from the new Sana’a International Airport in Yemen. The logistics plan would preserve continuity of country customs entry and departures. It would also harden his cover for his next trip to the region, should one be required.

Havens, holding an 18 round Russian 9mm OTs-27 Berdysh pistol as he approached the knocking, coughed twice out loud and uttered, “Two seconds, please.” It was audible enough to be heard on the other side of the door, but while doing so he was crouched low and to the side of the door in the event he was blasted by a bullet assault from the hallway from an uninvited party anticipating someone approaching the door.

“I am sorry, sir, but there is no tour today,” the Arabic reply stated in response to the cough.

Havens called out to the closed door. “Can you accommodate me for next week?”

“Certainly, sir, but perhaps we can discuss the details for a different tour activity.”

Havens opened the door to see a thirty-something-year-old light-skinned Ethiopian man standing before him in local apparel. Sean’s gaze met the Ethiopian and gestured to his left and right with his eyeballs. When he received a negative nod, Sean felt things were clear and summoned his guest to come in.

Havens extended his hand to the Ethiopian, “You are not quite what I expected. I am Mick.”

The Ethiopian shook it vigorously. “Not expecting? What did’ja expect…uh, Mick, a white dude in a pin stripe suit and bowler hat with a big booty bitch on each arm?”

“Whoa,” Havens offered a smile, “Where are you from? You’re American.”

The Ethiopian, who introduced himself as John, laughed. “Yeah, I’m Americano. I get that a lot. From DC originally. Moved to Maryland later, came back to DC area, went to school at Georgetown. That’s the story and that’s all you get. I’m just the bridge between you and my guy.”

“Understood.”

John threw a twined cloth package on the small dining table, which Havens knew would be a new set of clothes.

Still amused, Havens was ready to transition from personal to business. He had things to do. “Well shit, had me fooled.”

“Yeah, that’s the point, right?” John looked around the room. He started walking towards the bedroom where local news radio was playing from somewhere in the back to drown out and confound potential audio surveillance.

“Whad’ya have for me?” Havens was anxious to get on his way. He knew John was just doing a cursory check and paid it no mind.

John called back, “I have a ticket, few credit cards, passport…”

“Whoa, buddy. Passport? I don’t need one of them.” Havens cut John off and grabbed the small leather fanny pack that John had thrown on the clothes package.

Havens shook his head in utter disbelief. “No way. No frickin’ way. What are you guys thinking? A black passport? You are handing me an official diplomatic passport? How did you get this so quickly and with the name of someone I have never heard of and one that singles me out as official? I have a blue regular guy passport that I am using. Are you kidding me?”

Havens started to pace the room. He started flipping through the passport that typically indicates those traveling for strictly diplomatic purposes and who hold diplomatic immunity. A nicety, but not for those who are not looking for scrutiny and identification as U.S. government.

“This passport you got here is even brand new. It cracks when I open it. Thread is tight. No stamps. Cover isn’t creased from any use. It is dated last year. Where did you get this and who the hell put this shitty ass kit together for me? I trust you have nothing under organizational cover or a cover organization?”

“Say, Mick, may want to not shout this to the whole country if you are so worried about being clean. I’m just sayin’.”

Disregarding the warning, Havens continued his rant. “If I am a traveling government official with regional diplomatic activity in this area, do you really think I never traveled anywhere before as it shows on this flippin’ brand spanking new passport? God forbid I encounter biometric scrutiny!” He threw down the passport. “What the fuck?”

John backed up, raising his hands defensively. “Not me, man. I am just delivering the goods. One of your dudes at the blue building downtown here gave it to me to give to you. So don’t bring your shit on my shoes.”

“Blue building? What blue building?”

“Yeah, right. You know, where all you…you…c’mon, you know…your kind comes when they are in Yemen for action. I ain’t a shooter, man. I street lurk, but ain’t no hunter killer. I just stop by the blue building if I have to drop something off or get a kit to stash at a house so you snake eaters have their toys ‘n shit. You really don’t know?”

“John, look. I never heard of a blue building. To the best of my knowledge there are no shooters in some place I don’t know about. If you are in the game you know I can’t play this hand unless I know who this guy is, what he does, why he is supposedly here, where he entered the country from and when, does he have a physical and digital or virtual footprint. I could get burned real quick.”

“Look man, I feel ya. Here is the bottom line from where I am standing. There is a ticket, a passport, some cash, and probably some other stuff. We’re understaffed here at this station. Sometimes the dudes that come in here to help are just contractors or old military dudes with the right tickets punched for clearance. They ain’t smart, Mick. They just cleared. Doesn’t mean they know what they are doing just because they were lucky enough to have a full scope lifestyle and CI poly, but chances are this will get you seventy-five percent of the way. Up to you to fake the rest. They train us Farm chickens like that. You do know the Farm?”

Not needing to be convinced and not willing to indulge the snarky question, Havens was already trying to solve the problem. “Where is this blue building? I will take care of things.”

John started backing up towards the door, and with his hand on the knob said, “Yeah, right. Man, if you don’t know where the blue building is, you ain’t supposed to know where the blue building is. It ain’t even really blue. Anyway, I said too much, so forget I said that. See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya. Write your congressman and get some funds appropriated if you don’t like what’s going on here in the Yem. Continuing resolution just boinked you in the ass, Pops. Don’t miss your flight. Gotta go. Leave your shit here and someone will come get it after you leave,” John’s voice slowed and trailed while now eyeing the pistol Havens was tucking in his waistband.

With that, John exited the room to go back to the streets he worked each day for the intelligence community. Low man on the totem pole caught shit from all sides. Today was just another day. He thought about having a qat chew, but now he had one more task before Havens could leave town. He’d have to move quickly. A text message would save time, but it would also leave a trail. No trails.

Fuckin’ cowboy shooters. How can you not know the blue building if you are a hardcore. All the hardcore ones go there. Shit, they own the night here.

As soon as John left, Havens briskly walked the room as if in search of something, hands on hips with a constantly shaking head. The risky cover legend was compounding the stress. Havens wanted to kill someone but knew John had done his part and was not at fault. John was right. He was trained to adapt and make the best of it. Carry on. He never got rattled. But with today’s news about Maggie, he was.

Havens opened the ticket, figuring he had a better than a fifty-fifty chance of pulling this ruse off. He had to get home as fast as he could. No time to bitch and moan.

Four more hours before his flight left.

Havens scanned the ticket, hoping that he would see a lucky mid-point transit that could give him some hope of passing checkpoints and the scrutiny of his background.

C’mon Dubai, c’mon Dubai.

His gaze stopped on the destination.

Kuwait. Well, that’s going to have to work.

Chapter 7

H
avens called Christina again to inform her of his basic itinerary and that he was expected to be home in two days. It was the best he could do and she never challenged it. She knew her husband would pull out all the stops to get home as soon as possible.

He asked to speak to his daughter. Although she was sitting in the other room just socializing on her computer, his only child refused to talk to him.

“Give Maggie her time,” Christina had told a disappointed Sean. “She has been through a lot, and in fairness to her, you were not here when she really could have used you. We have to rethink this whole travel thing while she is still with us at home. I’m not throwing this in your face. It’s just what we are dealing with.”

“I wish I had woken her before I left. I don’t even think I kissed her goodbye.”

“That makes two of us you neglected to kiss goodbye.”

“Shit. Sorry. Well, at least you’re talking to me.”

“This time. Just leave her be for now. You are making it more about you than her.”

Sean was hurt, but understood. In truth, he really didn’t have anything to say to the poor girl. He was ashamed that he had let her down and was simply trying to extend some sort of olive branch. The travel thing came up again. He would have to make some changes again for both of his ladies. If Christina was asking this of him, he knew it was important. She was a more than fair wife and would not impose undue demands unless she really needed his help. He would oblige her request without another thought. They were a team although she shouldered the brunt of the responsibilities, and he recognized this.

His daughter received the message loud and clear too. While she refused to get on the phone and put up her distant angry face for her mom, she was typing on her Facebook wall, “My dad is coming home tomorrow : ) I am so happy.”

Somewhere in cyberspace, the message was received on another computer’s pop-up display. The user opened a software program with secure instant messaging capabilities. He clicked on one of the usernames and typed, “HE’S ON HIS WAY.”

Christina had informed her husband that the police were now downplaying the threats. They believed the texts were likely just a time saver for the rapist to stall any investigation and an attempt to hush his victim. There had been no other text messages, threats, or indications of further aggression. It was an eerie but welcome calm. The police stated that they would continue the rape investigation. The local television stations even showed a three-minute feature story on the attack during the evening news with a sketch and a hotline number for any information that was potentially available on the attacker.

Christina had said the lack of additional threats had calmed her down some and the police’s rationale of why a rapist would have made such a threat now made more sense. She told her husband that they should discuss it when he got home and to hold off on sending his own band of merry men to the house. “I don’t want a bunch of your friends here, Sean. I want you.”

Christina loved her husband and respected his work, but he was a bit different from some of the other men that he associated with. She had heard that those sorts of men were called “rough men” in some circles. Not her circles. But it made sense. Most of the guys were not big muscular Stallone or Schwarzenegger types. They are more like that Jason Statham guy, she’d think to herself. They were nice, quiet, and good looking, but they had an edge. A rough edge specifically.

They were respectful to her but struck her as having a certain indiscernible look. A look about them and a way they would actually look at her. The look was not an uncomfortable sexual look like one she would receive from admiring eyes on the street. These men were looking at her or rather inside of her with more of an introspective probing. Sometimes she felt as though they were cyborgs constantly scanning, assessing, and ready to react or attack at a moment’s notice. They reminded her of a big dog you trust but would never leave unattended near a child, and yet the dog would probably save the child’s life in a moment of danger.