Kill Shot (9 page)

“Come in, Kimball. Have a seat.”

Sloane watched the large man out of the
corner of his eye. Kimball reminded him of a hulking cat, ready to
spring. Dark brown hair that always needed a cut and a body like a
linebacker. But it was the coldness and pure evil in Kimball’s
muddy brown eyes that had caused Sloane to hire him. And the fact
that the man had a unique brain hidden under the obvious brawn. He
was a man easily underestimated.

Sloane frowned as Kimball helped himself to
a cup of coffee and propped a booted foot on one of the dining
chairs.

“I take it you didn’t come to see me for
breakfast,” Sloane said, not bothering to let his irritation
show.

“You told me to dig into everything Frank
Bennett was involved in, retrace all of his steps over the last
month. Have you changed your mind?”

Sloane still regretted that he hadn’t found
out about Frank Bennett digging around in classified files before
Frank stumbled across The Passover Project. If Bennett had waited
even twenty-four hours to snoop around, all of the files would have
been gone. But Bennett
had
found them, and taken all the
information back to his home. It would have only been a matter of
time before Bennett found out who was behind The Passover Project’s
resurgence. Bennett had been a good man—a useful man. But Sloane
didn’t regret for a minute having Kimball take him out, especially
once Bennett started asking the wrong questions.

“Not at all,” Sloane said. “Did you find
something?”

“Possibly. Bennett used the CIA courier
service to have a package delivered to London. I don’t know what
was in it, but it was signed for by an Edgar Harris.”

“What do you have on Harris?”

“Not a damned thing. On the surface Harris
is a forty-four year old financial investor with a prosperous
business, Worthington Financial Services, LLC¸ located on Chapel
Street. He’s divorced with no children. Pays his taxes. Makes twice
yearly visits to another home in the south of France.”

“What are you not telling me?”

“I had one of my men put the business under
surveillance. The place is more secure than Fort Knox. It’s a hell
of a setup, and it made my Spidey senses tingle, so I’ve had my men
following Harris to see what he’s been up to. He flew in on his
private plane from a location that was undisclosed, and I couldn’t
get hold of the pilot to try and persuade him to tell me the
location. Most of Harris’s employees are former military
intelligence, so they’re always on the lookout.”

Kimball grabbed a muffin from the basket in
the center of the table and tossed it all into his mouth,
scattering crumbs across the table and his shirt.

“Harris knew he was being tailed, and his
driver lost my men, but I already had the address Bennett sent the
package to, so I sent them on to do surveillance and watch the
comings and goings. It turned out my Spidey senses were right. My
men emailed me a couple of photos late last night.”

Sloane took the photos from Kimball and
stared at the two men leaving the financial firm. “Should I
recognize them? Which one is Harris?”

“I don’t know, but I ran their photos
through the database and got a hit. Jack Donovan is the second man.
He’s a recently retired Navy SEAL commander. Served two tours in
Afghanistan and was in charge of all the VBSS missions after 9/11.
He’s a damned war hero and has gotten every commendation
imaginable. He’s been a guest of the President twice. All of his
classified files have been encrypted by someone outside the CIA. I
have one of my men working on it.”

“Interesting that he’d relocate to London.
What’s he doing there?”

“No clue. After he retired from the service,
he fell off the grid. Traveled around a little, then seemed to
decide on London. His mail is sent to a private post office box.
But he has no physical address that I can find. His family lives in
Texas, but he doesn’t get home often, though he does keep in touch
with email.”

“Did Donovan know Frank Bennett?”

“Oh, yeah. The SEALs loaned Donovan out to
the CIA on several occasions. Frank Bennett was always the
DDO—Deputy Director of Operations—of record. And from what I could
find out, they were also personal friends.”

“What about the second man?”

“No fucking clue. I can’t find a likeness
anywhere in any database. He doesn’t exist.”

“Not good,” Sloane said. “He’s got to be
government of some kind to disappear like that. For now keep your
sights on Jack Donovan. Maybe have your men detain him for
questioning.”

“How much do you care about keeping Donovan
alive?”

“I don’t want him dead. Yet. Just do what
you have to do to get him to talk. I want to know what was in that
package Frank Bennett sent. If it’s what I think it is, then I’ve
got a big problem.”

“I’ll keep digging on the mystery man.
Eventually, someone will know who he is. I may have to go up pretty
high on the food chain to do so.”

Sloane knew what Kimball was asking. Higher
up on the food chain could include heads of state and five-star
generals. Kimball would only have to break one of them to get the
answers he needed. And Sloane knew from experience that Kimball was
very efficient at getting information.

“Do what you have to do,” Sloane finally
said. “I’ll clear any paths for you if you need me to. There are a
lot of people who owe me favors. They’ll keep quiet and should
cooperate.”

Kimball nodded and left. Sloane took another
sip of coffee and looked at the photos of Jack Donovan and his
companion. Frank Bennett hadn’t been a stupid man. He’d only send
sensitive information to the person he trusted the most. Sloane
just had to find out who that person was.

“Peters,” he called out.

“Yes, sir?”

“Cancel all my meetings. I need to work from
home this morning.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Get the President on the phone.”

Kuwait

“My contact knows me as Amir Shahzad,” Gabe
said as he loaded a large black case in the back of the Jeep. He
covered it with a tarp and got behind the wheel. Grace finished
loading bottles of water under the seats and slid in beside him.
Her hair was covered with a long black scarf—a
hijab
—and she
wore a loose white shirt, khaki cargo pants, and lightweight boots
that were made for traveling over sandy terrain.

“Do you trust him?”

“My contact? Absolutely not. He’s a merchant
in the city and is bought easily enough. Our arrangement has worked
out so far, but he’s a businessman.”

Gabe slipped sunglasses over his dark brown
eyes. Between the contacts and his beard, he was pretty damned
uncomfortable. Like Grace, he wore desert-colored cargos and a
white linen shirt. He was grateful for the loose black turban that
hung over his head and protected him from the blistering sun that
shone like a ball of flame in the cloudless blue sky. It was going
to get a lot hotter before they got where they were going.

Gabe put the Jeep in drive and they left
Kuwait with minimal fuss, heading across the border with the fake
IDs that had served him well during his days with the CIA. “We’ll
be given shelter for the night once we arrive in Abadan, and then
we’ll leave to find Tussad once the city sleeps. They have imposed
curfews because of the bombings, so we shouldn’t have to wait too
long.”

“Won’t your contact find it strange you’re
bringing a woman with him?”

“Not necessarily.” Gabe felt her stare, but
he kept his eyes on the treacherous road as they bumped their way
over the mountains and closer to the city. They still had another
four hours to travel by car before they reached the entrance to
Abadan. If he was a weaker man, he would have blushed under her
gaze. He knew that look better than anyone. And he knew it meant
trouble.

“So he’s used to you bringing women with you
when you visit?” she asked, her voice calm even as her eyes spit
green fire.

“It helped with my cover. It’s been three
years since I last saw him.”

“You mean you were bringing strange women
with you here while we were still married?”

“Dammit, I told you it was part of the
cover. It’s not like I slept with any of them. Believe me, I’ve
never for one second forgotten that you are my wife.”

“I
was
your wife,” she said.

Gabe didn’t bother to correct her. It
probably wasn’t a good time to mention he’d never signed the
divorce papers. As soon as they’d been delivered, he’d promptly
shredded them and gotten rip-roaringly drunk. It hadn’t been one of
his finer moments. But he was still married in the eyes of the law,
and that’s all that mattered.

The sun was quickly fading, and its heat
pulsed in waves of bright orange off the sand, making the tiny
grains shimmer like glass and the barren land before them waver
like a picture going in and out of focus. They were fortunate the
scorching days were tempered by cool nights, and that they’d
brought plenty of water. The desert wasn’t forgiving to those who
weren’t prepared.

The rest of the drive was made in silence as
they traveled farther and farther into hostile territory—both of
them had their pistols ready on their laps. When the transition
from day to night passed, they both pulled on their night-vision
gear, their attention never wavering from the numerous hiding
places the mountains provided.

“I’ve got something,” Grace said. “Two o’
clock, about a hundred and fifty yards ahead.”

“I see him. That could be Kareem. He’s a
little heavier than the last time I saw him, but the posture is
right.”

“I don’t like this, Gabe. There are too many
good places to hide in these mountains. We might as well have
targets on our foreheads.”

“Where would you go if you were going to
pick us off?” Gabe asked.

Grace looked her options over and pointed to
the left. “Up that steep ridge there. I’d have visibility of anyone
coming or going through the pass.”

“Keep your eyes in that direction. I’ll keep
watch in front. My contact has a submachine gun slung over his arm,
and he’s ready to use it.”

“The merchant business must be rough. Tell
me what my cover is.”

“You’re my American wife, of course.” Before
she could sputter out a refusal, he said, “Pretend like you can’t
understand what we’re saying and hide your weapon. He won’t expect
you to have one.”

She did as she was told for once, shoving
the gun in her black duffel bag, but not before shooting him a
vicious glare. “You’re going to pay for this.”

“I can’t wait.”

A stream of Kurdish came in their direction.
“Is that you, my friend, Amir?”

Gabe answered him back in the same tongue.
“It is, my friend Kareem.
Salaam alaykum
.”

He slowed the Jeep to a stop beside a plump
man dressed in black slacks and an oversized olive-green canvas
jacket. The man’s hair was thin on top, but a thick beard peppered
with gray covered his face. They clasped hands affectionately.

“How are you, Kareem?”

“Not well, my friend. Come. I will take you
to my home and tell you all about it.” Kareem ignored Grace as he
climbed into the Jeep beside her and pushed her closer to Gabe.

Gabe followed the desert road several miles
before there was any sign of civilization. The town was just a
shadow of what he remembered it being. “What happened here?”

“Abadan is too close to the border. There
were bombings more than a year ago, and most of the people fled
inland. Some left the country altogether. My wife and youngest son
were killed. The rebuilding is slow, and it is even slower to
repopulate.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Kareem. Your wife
was a faithful woman. Has your business suffered much?”

“Your words are kind, my friend. My business
has suffered greatly, but I’ve managed to find my way.”

Gabe drove slowly through the deserted
streets as Kareem gave instructions to his home. Businesses and
houses of pale colors with traditional flat roofs passed by. Trees
were scarce and those with money seemed to be even more scarce, but
he noticed as they pulled onto Kareem’s street that the merchant
was obviously doing very well for himself.

The wind was high, and dust swirled around
them as Gabe parked the Jeep to the side of a house made of smooth
white stone. It was two solid stories and had a balcony on the
upper level. The downstairs windows were large and square, and
covered with heavy drapes to protect from the sun. It was larger
than most of the other houses on the street and had a row of palm
trees flanking each side.

Gabe grabbed both his and Grace’s
belongings, and they followed Kareem inside. A young girl of about
fifteen opened the door before they reached it.

“This is my daughter, Sarala. She will show
you to your room and provide you with food and drink. I’m sure
you’re famished after your journey. We will speak in the morning
about why you’ve come.”

“I’ll look forward to it, but don’t trouble
yourself providing us with food and drink for the night. We can
wait till morning.” Gabe said.

“I insist, my friend.”

“Then I give you my thanks.”

Kareem nodded and disappeared down a long
hallway, and Gabe ushered Grace up the stairs behind Kareem’s
daughter. She was small, and she kept her eyes lowered as she
opened the bedroom door for them.

“Tell your father thank you for the offer,
but my wife and I are really much too tired after our travels to
eat tonight.”

She nodded silently and closed the door
behind her, leaving them alone. Gabe held his finger to his lips
and warned Grace not to say anything. She nodded and unwrapped the
scarf from around her head.

The room was lovely, decorated in shades of
gold and cream and white. A large bed, covered by a white comforter
threaded with gold, sat low to the ground, and two beautifully
carved wooden chests flanked each side. The finely woven rug on the
floor was the only color in the room—a jewel-toned red.