Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (38 page)

“Go, go, go. Move, move!” he yelled at Abdul.

Abdul checked the door and fired a short burst into the courtyard. A few shrieks confirmed that he hit his mark, and he dove outside. More gunfire followed. The reports of assault rifles echoed in the night. Heavy machine guns hammering in the distance pounded the urgency of their escape into the Canadian agent. After trading his Beretta for a high-powered AK-47 next to the body of a dead guard, Justin joined Abdul in the courtyard.

“This way, quick,” Abdul said.

Justin followed the Libyan beyond the arched gate, which was now wide open. The bodies of three men lay sprawled across the sandy path. As Justin dashed inside the house, a few bullets whizzed past his head, boring deep holes in the mud-brick walls.

“Faster, faster, come on,” Abdul shouted.

Justin noticed Abdul was panting and stopped for a closer look.

“What’s wrong?” Abdul asked.

“Did they get you?”

“No. Don’t stop.”

The halls of the house were pitch-black, but the moonlight trickling through barred windows guided their steps. They slid around a few stone benches set along the walls. Justin kept looking for a way to climb to the roof, like Bashir had advised, but Abdul kept pushing them deeper into the maze of narrow halls snaking out in all directions.

“We need to get to the roof,” Justin said.

“No, they’ll make us out. Up there we have no cover.”

“So how are we getting to the main gate?”

“I know a shortcut.”

Abdul went through a couple of doors straight ahead then turned left. The maze of covered streets in Ghadames stretched for miles. The town, at the edge of the Sahara Desert and just seven miles from the border with Algeria and Tunisia, was built with a roof on top, to keep out destructive sandstorms and sweltering heat waves. Skylight openings and arched windows drew in the faint glow of the moon.

Whiz, whiz.

Two bullets struck the wall only inches away from Justin’s head. Their shock waves swept over his face and dust flew out of the ricochet holes.

“Stay away from the windows,” Justin shouted at Abdul.

“OK. We’re almost there.”

Abdul slowed down after a dozen steps and waited for Justin to catch up with him. Standing by a small doorway, he pointed outside. “You can see the town’s gate right over there.”

Justin followed Abdul’s hand. The tall archway stood about two hundred yards away.

“We’re not gonna make it.” Justin pointed to a white Toyota truck parked about ninety feet to their left. Four men wielding assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenades were positioned behind the truck, barricading the fugitives’ only escape route.

“Cover me.” Abdul slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle.

Justin pointed his weapon toward the truck and sprayed a barrage of bullets. One man plopped to the ground. Another started twitching and pulling his left leg. The last two crawled to the rear without returning fire.

Abdul bolted toward the Toyota as fast as he could push his weak frame. Justin ran after him and kept firing until he heard the hollow click of the gun’s hammer striking the empty chamber. He ducked for cover behind a small wall to his left and inserted a full magazine into his weapon. Gunfire erupted from the barricade. Bullets scraped the wall and the ground around him. More gunshots followed, then there was a brief moment of relative calm. Justin took a quick peek.

“They’re all dead.” Abdul climbed inside the Toyota.

Justin ran to him, glancing only once at the row of houses behind them. “You’re wounded.” He pointed to Abdul’s right side.

A bullet had pierced Abdul’s body a couple of inches underneath his ribcage.

“Flesh wound. Nothing serious,” Abdul replied. “Get in.”

Justin jumped into the passenger’s seat. Abdul stepped on the gas pedal. He raised a storm of dust as the Toyota bounced over bumps and ruts, swerving toward the main gate. A second later, a torrent of bullets thudded against the truck’s tailgate and the cabin’s doors. A group of men were firing at their truck from the houses’ rooftops. Justin shot back. One of the men fell over the wall. The rest withdrew beyond his sight.

“There’s a car behind us,” Abdul said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Justin took in a Jeep gaining on them. “I’m empty.”

“So am I.”

Justin looked at the backseats, but there were no weapons or ammunition. His eyes moved to the end of the truck, where he saw an RPG launcher and a wooden box loaded with grenades.

“Got it,” he said.

He crawled to the backseats and squeezed through the small window, landing against the rails of the truck box. He snatched a grenade from the box and checked the RPG launcher before attaching the grenade to the front of the weapon. He shouldered it with a swing, struggling for balance on one knee, and then he pulled the trigger, just as the Toyota veered to the left.

The projectile screamed out of the weapon. A plume of gray smoke billowing from the weapon’s blast cone engulfed the truck. Justin coughed and heaved. As the smoke cleared, he saw the grenade exploding into the dome of the town’s mosque, tearing it to shreds. The six-story-high minaret came tumbling down to the ground like a sandcastle swept away by a strong wave.

“The Jeep,” Abdul shouted. “That’s the target.”

“Thank you. What was
I
thinking?”

The Jeep was now about eighty yards behind them. Before Justin could reach for another grenade, sparks flared up from bullets thumping against the truck. Rifle muzzles flashed from two assailants firing from both sides of the Jeep. A bullet ricocheted off the rail and grazed his left leg.

Justin screwed another warhead to the launcher. He readied the RPG for the next round of fire. Abdul steered the truck around a corner, the last one inside the town. They raced through a narrow tunnel, the main gate of Ghadames. Two black Nissans were parked about one hundred yards outside the town walls. Three silhouettes stood by the vehicles. One of them, slimmer than the others, sported a long ponytail.

“Bashir’s cars,” Abdul said.

“So those should be the freed hostages.”

Abdul peered for a long moment before answering, “Yes, they are.”

“And I see Carrie too,” Justin said, his joy clear in his voice after seeing his partner was safe. “Now stop the car.”

“Why?”

“So I can aim the RPG.”

Abdul stopped. Justin aimed at the mouth of the tunnel and pressed the launcher firmly against his right shoulder. As soon as the Jeep appeared halfway through the gate, he fired the RPG. The grenade barreled toward the target with a swishing screech. The warhead slammed into the Jeep. The vehicle burst into a massive, fiery explosion. The entire tunnel caved in over the burning hulk.

“We’re home free now.” Justin dropped the launcher by his feet and collapsed against the cabin.

“Yes, brother, we are,” Abdul said.

He waited until Justin was back in his passenger’s seat before saying, “My boss won’t be pleased with you blowing up the mosque and destroying the gate.”

“He might change his mind once he learns the terrorists are crushed and the hostages are free.”

The truck growled while its tires spun over loose sand. Abdul eased off the gas pedal, allowing the tires to regain traction. They covered the short distance to Bashir’s cars, and Justin jumped out of the truck, right into Carrie’s arms.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“Yes. So happy to see you.” Justin enjoyed the safety and the comfort of her embrace. “And you guys.” He nodded at the two doctors.

The former hostages’ faces were pale, but they gave Justin bright smiles.

“Sorry it took the cavalry some time to get here,” Carrie said.

“It’s all good. Let’s go.” Justin headed toward one of the Nissans.

Chapter One

Canadian Intelligence Service Headquarters, Ottawa, Canada

April 10, 7:50 a.m.

Present day

“Good morning, Justin.” Carrie smiled as she entered his sparsely furnished office bearing a tray holding coffee cups and a brown paper bag. A foot-high stack of bank transaction printouts took up most of the space on his desk, with very little room for Justin’s laptop. He was sitting behind it.

“Hi, Carrie. How are you?” He took one of the cups from the tray. “Thanks for this,” he said before taking a small sip. “What do you have in there?” He pointed at the paper bag she placed precariously over the bank records.

“Breakfast. I bet you haven’t eaten anything yet.” Carrie took one of the seats across from his desk.

“No time. Couldn’t wait to come to the office and pore over these financial statements. As a child, this is what I
always
dreamed of doing.
Bookkeeping.
”

He rubbed his dimpled chin then ran his fingers through his hair. Justin had a Mediterranean complexion—dark olive skin, raven wavy hair, big black eyes, and a large thick nose—inherited from his Italian mother.

“Have a blueberry muffin. It will cheer you up. Freshly baked.”

“Thanks.”

Justin chewed on a small piece. “Hmmm, these are really good,” he said when finished. “But not as good as the ones you used to make for us.”

Carrie said nothing for a couple of seconds then shook her head. Her auburn shoulder-length hair, which she usually kept in a semi-ponytail, flowed down her slender neck. “Yes, I used to make,” she said quietly after a deep sigh, “but not anymore. Have you heard from the army?” she asked, eager to change the conversation.

“Yes, I did.” Justin’s voice rang with a tinge of despair. “They rejected my application. They consider me, how did they put it, oh, a ‘liability,’ regardless of my flawless service until the Libyan episode.”

“I know what you mean. It took me a long time and a great amount of luck to get in. Mil intel selection is even harder than regular army entrance.”

Before joining the Canadian Intelligence Service, Carrie had served two tours of duty in Afghanistan with Joint Task Force Two, the elite counter-terrorism unit of Special Operations Forces. Justin had always been in the CIS, operating mainly in Northern Africa. After returning from Libya, both Justin and Carrie were suspended from field missions until the completion of an internal inquiry on the deadly prison escape. The inquiry was still pending. In the meantime, they were assigned routine desk duties.

“You know,” Justin said, “I got a paper cut yesterday, and I was glad it happened. It’s good to know I still have some blood left in me and this office hasn’t sucked it all out.”

Carrie smiled. “I think I’m going blind reading figures and names and more names and figures every single freaking day. Some first-year analyst should do this, not intelligence officers like us.”

Justin sighed. Then a smile spread across his face. “Perhaps we’ll get our wish. Did you see Johnson’s last e-mail?”

“The one from last night?”

“No. She sent another one this morning.”

“I haven’t been to my office yet.” She took a sip from her coffee.

“CSE has recorded another sighting of icebreakers, this time off the coast of Cape Combermere, southeast of Ellesmere Island.”

“Could they determine who they belong to?”

Justin shook his head. “No, they couldn’t.”

“So what does Johnson want us to do?”

“She didn’t give any specifics, but she called a briefing for this morning.”

“I see. What did you tell her?”

“I suggested a recon op and pretty much volunteered for it.”

Carrie put her coffee cup on his desk. “What? This is the Arctic, in the middle of winter.”

“Well, office boredom is killing me. I’ve got to get out there in the field.” Justin pointed to his office door.

“More like the ice field.”

“It’s not like I have a lot of options. The Libyans didn’t take lightly the destruction of their mosque and half of their world heritage town by an ‘infidel.’ Abdul and I were running for our lives, after being tortured by their operatives working with the Algerian terrorists.” Justin’s voice rose. “After coming back, it was either this crappy job or administrative leave. Now an opportunity shows up and since no one is going to hand it over to me, I’m going to seize it.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me; we’re in the same boat. I didn’t destroy much of the town, like you did, but I heard I made room for twenty new recruits at Algerian terrorist camps. Still, you want to go to the Arctic?”

“If Johnson decides to dispatch a team up there, which I’m sure she will, I’d like to go. After all, how else can we confirm the icebreakers’ identity?”

“You’re right. If only those damn satellites would work.” Carrie took a bite of her muffin and washed it down with a gulp of her coffee. “So it’s safe to assume I’ll need to pack my bags.”

“I didn’t volunteer you.”

“Johnson won’t let you go on your own. That’s if she even decides to assign you to such a task force.”

Justin held the gaze of her gray-blue eyes. He nodded. “You’re right about that. She’s bringing in a couple of other people to this briefing. Some bigwig from DND and a lawyer from our legal services.”

“You know them?”

“No, and I don’t understand why they’re here.”

“I’m sure Johnson will give us her excuse for calling them in.”

“Yes, she will.”

Justin glanced at his wristwatch. “Shall we head up?”

Carrie finished her muffin and her coffee and stood up. “Sure. Let’s not make her wait.”

* * *

The office of Claire Johnson, Director General of Intelligence for North Africa, was at the northeast corner of the sixth floor. Justin walked in fast, short steps, listening to the rhythmic thud of his shoes over the hardwood floor. He stopped once in the hall. He saw a huge painting on the wall, depicting an impressive Arctic landscape and three determined explorers. Their weary faces were very much alive as they stoically pressed ahead with dogsleds toward the white horizon peppered with snow-capped ridges. The ice packs, the snow banks, and the heavy blizzard appeared quite real. Justin shook his head in awe before resuming his swift pace. He turned the corner and saw Carrie pacing in front of Johnson’s office door.