24

Jack

 

 

Ciudad Del Este, Paraguay

 

 

Jack stood in the street surrounded by the cheap construction of inner city high-rises designed to shelve too much humanity in too small a space. It was a world of grey and brown with flecks of color — red and blue a bit of yellow. Jack didn’t like that the windows were filthy with pollution, and covered with curtains. He couldn’t see if there were eye watching him from inside. Late model cars, more rust than shine cruised past him down the narrow street.

He had dropped wireless magnetic earbuds into his ear canals and wore a necklace communicator so Base could hear him.

The city was bustling. Pedestrians wove in and out amongst the umbrella covered vendors that grew like mushrooms along the sidewalks. Here and there people would move into the mud-covered streets, merging with the slow-moving traffic to get around a squabble or a beggar. All around him, Jack heard Arabic being spoken. He picked up no Spanish or Guarani or even Portuguese. He was deep in the Arabic community.

As he moved down the street into position, he walked through pockets of air, putrid with rotting garbage. He slid past sweaty bodies that ripened with the day’s heat. He took up a place against a pillar that held up an overhang. A low rumble slid overhead; but from here, he had no visual on the sky and couldn’t tell how close the storm had surged. Jack hoped they could achieve their objective and get the hell out of Dodge before the skies opened up. Everything became more dangerous in the rain.

His newly acquired Sig P226 was stuck in his belt at the small of his back, hidden by a loose fitting buttoned shirt that seemed as popular here as it was in the Middle East. He had his back up Glock in an ankle holster above his boot. He had two extended mags of ammunition in his pocket and a KABAR folding Mule knife on his belt. If everything went smoothly, he wouldn’t need to use any of them.

Jack had left the crutches at the safe house. He didn’t have time for them anymore. He wore the same kind of baggy pants that he spotted on most of the locals. They hid his brace from obvious view, so it wasn’t a red flag waving in a bull’s face, kick me here, I’m vulnerable.

This was a Mossad action; he was just along for the ride. Glad to be. They were picking up a guy they knew to be a logistics guy for Hezbollah. He was also known to be in regular communication with Simon Zoric. Jack’s intel from his British pal was what got him a ticket to this show. Cheers, mate. Jack whispered under his breath.

The Mossad unit was worried about something. That was an interesting piece of information. Specifics behind their concerns weren’t part of their conversation with Jack — not part of his need-to-know. But they did reveal that this guy had a connection to the cell activity that they had lost track of. The cell that might have produced the dead Jihadist back in DC. It wasn’t a straight line to Suz. But if the dead terrorist had been trained in this area, it was possible that his cell had the boys. And Suz.

Over his comms, Jack could hear the undercover say, “As-salāmu ʿalaykum.”

"Waʿalaykumu as-salām." Their mark responded.

Jack glanced to his right where Ruth had parked in a beat-to-hell van from the eighties, providing another pair of eyes and their exit strategy. The unit had him positioned out front. They had an operative somewhere covering the back of the building. They, also, had satellite support and a commander on the comms. The chances for grabbing this guy were pretty good. They just needed the undercover agent to tempt Al Amman out to the streets. They’d flash a gun, push him into the van, and off they’d roll.

“You are looking well my friend, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” The undercover, Benjamin, continued. He was none too happy that the last year he had spent working this Hezbollah contact, Al Amman, using him to infiltrate the political substructure of the area was all going to go down the toilet with this capture. But the directive had come down some command chain that Al Amman needed hands-on interrogation back in Israel. That he might have information that could help America — and by America they meant Jack and Suz and maybe the boys— was icing on the cake, Jack was told. Apparently, relations were frosty at the moment between Israeli and American leaders. Jack didn’t care about the politics; his mission was to get Suz back and try to identify the children. If it was Ari and Caleb, that changed things considerably.

“You said there was an urgent transaction?”

There was a pause in conversation and the jostling of glass against metal. Jack thought that the requisite tea was being poured and shared. It was part of the social dance performed by many Middle Easterners at meetings.

“Indeed. Monies from the United States need to be converted for use by our brothers. They need this funding with some urgency. There is an event that is time sensitive.”

“And in what form would you present this—.”

There was a sudden movement at the window. A flutter of the white curtains.

The mark hissed, “Spy” in Farsi.

That word instantly mobilized Jack. He strode across the street, skipping in front of a taxi that didn’t want to slow, and moved across the crowded sidewalk toward the door. In his ear he heard their insider, Benjamin. “He made the van, he’s running.”

The van roared to life and battled its way through the morning traffic to circle the block. The Mossad undercover, looking every part the businessman, strutted out of the front door – he needed to keep his cover going in this part of the world and that meant playing his bit no matter what. He folded his paper and looked at the sky before he walked down the sidewalk. As Jack brushed past him, he whispered, “He’s headed out the back door.”

Jack moved out of view of the street toward the stairs, the only way to get to the back exit in this fire hazard of a building design.

Mossad command was tense. “Alpha team, bring me Al Amman. Alive.”

Jack pressed his index finger into the tag under his shirt. “Copy that.” As he rounded the door frame, a man jumped him, jabbing forward with his knife. Jack dodged, narrowly missing the blade. With lightning speed Jack grabbed the assailant’s forearm. He pulled his KABAR from his pants with a deft flick of his wrist. He yanked the assailant until they were chest to chest. Jack thrust his blade up under the man’s ribs, holding him tight so he could take two more stabs. The man wrapped Jack in a bear hug, trying stop Jack’s movements. The assailant gurgled and gasped as Jack’s knife slit the man’s lung, deflating it. Jack smiled broadly and pat his back, “My dear friend, I’m so happy to run into you,” he said in Arabic then pushed the man back inside and into the corner where the guard collapsed in a heap. Jack took a last definitive plunge of his blade behind the man’s collar bone. The guard was no longer a threat.

Jack bent to wipe down the knife on the guard’s shirt and stuck it back into his belt as he took the stairs two at a time, trying to make up for lost time. He pulled his Sig, wrapping the grip in his fists as he came to the first landing. Shoulder to the wall, he looked up for shadows, or body parts, or weapons focused down on him.

“They have eyes out front, he’s on his phone, expect company.” Command said.

“Alpha one, clear.” Jack heard Ezra’s voice.

“Alpha two, copy. Alpha one, the package is coming right to you,” Jack replied.

“Roger that.” They were speaking in English for his sake. This team had been on enough missions with US special forces that they felt comfortable with American radio protocol. It was better that they weren’t on the airwaves in Arabic or in Hebrew right now anyway.

Jack caught sight of the man, jumping and sliding down the back stairway. He was dressed in khaki pants and a blue dress shirt, trying to run in slick-bottomed loafers. Balding. Salt and pepper beard. Sixty-ish. When the man looked up the stairs, Jack caught a full view of his face — a hawk nose over an overbroad mouth, fat purplish lips. His eyes bulged like someone with thyroid issues and were draped in heavy, sleepy-looking lids. The mark looked exactly like his intelligence photos. This guy had been pictured on one of the packs of cards they hand out to soldiers. Play poker, memorize a terrorist’s face. Effective. Efficient. Someone had been very smart. This guy’s picture, on the seven of clubs, had cost Jack a bitter-cold all-nighter of watch duty when that seven busted him at Black Jack, and he lost the wager. Jack wasn’t going to forget that face easily.

Jack depressed his comms button. “Target confirmed. That’s Al Amman,” How such a high-value terrorist found himself working in Paraguay was a very good question, and Jack was very interested to find out the answers. Last, he’d been seen was Kabul, that was a while ago. US forces had assumed he was dead.

“Be advised X-rays on scene.” Command’s satellite view was gold when it came to keeping an op safe. They could see the enemies’ movements with a bird’s eye view. “Get out of there now. And bring our mark in safely. That’s an absolute—”

Command’s directive was cut off by the strafe of machine gun fire. Jack dove behind a doorway. Jack reached out a hand and grabbed Al Amman’s back collar, as Al Amman crouched with his arms flung over his head. Jack jerked the man back up the stairs and pushed him into the hallway.

“Alpha two, mark acquired.” Jack said into his comms.

“Get him back here,” Command said.

“Alpha One, threat neutralized.”

“Copy that.” Jack had Al Amman pressed against the wall, his shirt cloth wrapped in Jack’s fist and his forearm pressed across the man’s back. Jack did a quick pat down, removing a Glock from the guy’s waistband.

“Alpha three what’s your position?” Ezra called out as he rounded the corner and joined Jack.

“I’m coming around the building with the van now. Exfil one minute.” The roar of city life dappled Ruth’s words as she responded.

Command directed Jack and Ezra down a second set of stairs at a different exit. This door was padlocked shut. Jack held his gun over Al Amman’s shoulder, covering the stairs behind them as Ezra shot at the cable holding the door in place. Jack had Al Amman by the nape of the neck, using his clothing to keep him constrained, quiet, and on the tips of his toes. Jack maneuvered him forward and out the door. Ezra button hooked to take point. They could see the van inching forward. “Ah shit, incoming.” Jack yelled as he pushed back into the building. A man across the street opened fire, and Ezra threw his body around the corner of the door as bullets pinged the exit way. Like roaches in a sudden light, there was great scurrying as the street emptied. Screams echoed off the buildings.

Jack dragged Al Amman up the stair to the second floor and down the hallway. Ezra was at his heels. Al Amman grew heavier as they moved. Jack stopped to regroup and formulate an exit strategy.

“Shit, the mark took a gut shot.” Ezra bent down and examined him. “Nah, damn it, he’s not going to make it.”

The anger that rose in Jack seemed unmanageable, though he fought hard for control. He bent over, grabbing the man’s jaw and forcing Al Amman to look him in the eye. The man was grey and fading. “You took and American woman and two little boys where are they?” he asked in Arabic.

Al Amman lifted his chin and spat in Jack’s face. Jack didn’t flinch, didn’t wipe the spittle away. He squeezed the pressure points in the man’s jaw. “The woman and boys. Where are they?”

Al Amman coughed and laughed. “Now you’ll never know.”

“Hezbollah doesn’t like traitors. Yeah?” Ezra leaned in so he was cheek to jowl with Jack. “Very bad things happen to the families of those who show disloyalty. You have one and only one opportunity to protect your family, Al Amman.”

“I’m dying,” he gasped out with more shock and confusion than pain in his voice.

“We have collected intelligence on you. You have been scraping money from the tops of each pile and have that money hidden from view. Stealing money will earn some vicious enemies for your wife and children. We have video. We have bank account numbers. You are going to die now. Why not die knowing that you saved your family’s lives?” Ezra raised his brow. “Tell me where the boys are. Where’s the woman? Why do you have these hostages? Tell me and I swear to you on all that is holy, I will destroy the intelligence. I will save your family.”

Al Amman seemed to pass out, but his lips moved. Jack leaned in.

He gasped. “Gregor Zoric needs . . . boys. Know nothing . . . woman.” His eyes were mere slits.

Jack shook him. “A training cell let one of its jihadists go to America to get the boys. Do you know about this? Was he out of this area?”

Al Amman nodded. “Yes . . . a week . . .he went.”

“Are the boys in the camp?” Ezra asked.

The wounded man’s eyes rolled back, showing glassy whites

Jack smacked the man’s cheeks until Al Amman roused.

“Where’s the camp? Location?” Ezra demanded.

Al Amman’s body trembled. “Tatí Yupí.” On the front of his shirt, a small bloom of blood absorbed into the cotton. Al Amman cupped the hollow protectively. The much larger exit wound was streaming blood and intestinal fluids. A puddle formed beneath the man. Jack shuffled his foot away; blood made boots slippery and left trails that were easily followed.

“Why did they take them?” Jack demanded, grabbing at Al Amman’s shirt and lifting the dying man off the floor.

“The boys—”

“Three X-rays entered the building from the rear,” Command said.

“Shit,” Ezra stood and pivoted in front of Jack and Al Amman with his gun targeting down the hallway, guarding the interrogation. “Tell us already.” Ezra hissed and kicked backward at Al Amman’s leg.

“Because—”

“Here they come.” Ezra pushed his shoulder against the wall and lowered his profile as boots hammered up the stairs. “We’ve got to move.”

The back exit blazed bright as shots were fired by a gunman, trying to get the jump on them. Ezra took out their point man. “Move. Move. Move.”

Jack reached down and grabbed Al Amman’s arm and hauled it over his shoulder, hefting the unresponsive man up. Jack staggered toward the other end of the corridor, pushing all of the weight into his good leg, hauling his bad leg behind. He paused to yank Al Amman’s hand over his shoulder, across his chest, and down toward his waist. Gripping Al Amman’s wrist, Jack wore the dying man like a seat belt, leaving his right hand free to level his Sig. Al Amman’s feet dragged across the scarred linoleum as Jack bit down hard against the pain and jogged away from the bullets that Ezra was laying down to keep the x-rays pinned back. Jack yelled “to me” as he reached the stairs. Ezra was a pace behind. The enemies’ bullets whizzed past.

“Let go of him,” Ezra yelled in Jack’s ear.

“No,” shouted Command. “Bring him here.”

“He’s dead. He took a bullet. He’s dripping grey matter.”

“Shit,” Command yelled.

Jack released the weight, ran out of the building, down the street a half a block, and dove into the open side panel of the waiting van. His brace hit against the metal floor, and Jack sucked wind. Ezra piled in behind him. The van took off with their boots still sticking out of the door.

“Alpha-three, head due east your roads are clear.” Command said.

“Copy that.” Shots fired in their direction until Ruth turned the corner.

“Mission fail.” Jack groaned as he rolled onto his back and pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I failed you, Suz.”