TALISMAN: A Shadow Warriors Short Story Page 3

  The Khaybar

  His arm hooked around one rung of the ladder to keep himself from drifting away in the current, Tex screwed the suppressor into the threaded muzzle of the Smith & Wesson. The first pair of guards were right above him—separated now, one moving to starboard, the other to port.

  Shifting the pistol to his left hand, he reached out, pulling himself carefully up on the ladder, water cascading off his wetsuit.

  Footsteps above him and the big man paused, pressing himself tight against the side of the boat. Scarce daring to breathe.

  And then they passed.

  Even separated as they were, the two men still maintained an open line of sight, Tex realized as he raised himself up just high enough to obtain a visual. Weighing his options.

  He gave scarcely a moment’s consideration to the dive knife strapped to his ankle before rejecting it. The idea of a knife as a “silent” means of killing was largely a myth—perpetuated by Hollywood and untold scores of novelists over the decades. Truth was, people tended to object to being stabbed…and do so rather strenuously.

  As for slitting throats, well that was a lot harder than it looked too.

  He saw the one man’s face as he turned to walk back amidships, a swarthy outline against the Khaybar’s lights. Their best intel was that al-Harbi employed retired Jordanian spec-ops as security.

  Men that he had trained with during his days in the Corps—joint exercises between the US and Jordan.

  Good men. Warriors…like himself.

  The Smith & Wesson came forward in his right hand, the weapon as black as the night surrounding him.

  The semiautomatic coughed, the sound of the slide cycling almost louder than the shot itself. A ragged hole appeared between his target’s eyes and he squeezed the trigger again, hoisting himself up onto the stern of the yacht even as he fired.

  The second guard was turning now, his weapon clearing its holster even as the Texan stepped in close, wrapping a big hand around the back of the man’s neck—pulling him in close as he jammed the suppressor into the soft flesh beneath his chin.

  There was no time for hesitation. No time for remorse. He heard the man gasp for air, felt the trigger beneath his finger.

  Just a touch, and that was all it took--blood, warm and moist, flecking his face as the man’s body went limp in his arms.

  There were no words, nothing that could describe the look of shock in those eyes staring back at him from only inches away—death already glazing their depths, a face growing pale. The raw humanity of the life he had just taken.

  He lowered the corpse to the deck of the yacht, pulling him roughly toward the ladder by his heels. Time was slipping away…

  1:53 A.M.

  U.S. Embassy—Palazzo Margherita

  Rome, Italy

  “How long does he have?”

  Carter glanced over to see the station chief’s face in the semi-darkness. He had known the question was coming. Just a question of “when.”

  Holbrook hadn’t survived over forty years with the Agency without being able to think three moves ahead in this chess game they called war. “We’re running nearly an hour behind schedule,” the analyst replied, glancing at his watch. “And four men down. I’d say he’s got twenty-five minutes, tops.”

  Twenty-five minutes before a patrol boat of the French Gendarmerie Maritime passed within range of their target, on its routine nightly patrol. Protocol dictated that the gendarmes remain within their territorial waters, but if there was gunfire…

  Holbrook swore beneath his breath, his face faintly pale in the glow of the electronics. “That’s cutting it close, Ron. Too close. If he even tries to rescue her…”

  “Yeah, I know,” Carter replied, maintaining his composure with an effort. “But they don’t get more professional than Richards. He knows the score.”

  The lies you told yourself. Did they ever end?

  12:59 A.M. Local Time

  The Khaybar

  Judging by his tastes—from his Maybach Exelero to his yacht—TALISMAN was a devotee of fine engineering. German engineering, to be exact.

  Or perhaps he was simply attracted by the price tags. It didn’t really matter, the Texan thought, moving through the dimly-lit corridors below decks toward the main stateroom.

  Prince Yusuf ibn Talib al-Harbi was about to learn the same lesson Saddam had learned over twenty years before him.

  German engineers tended to keep blueprints—blueprints which had guided bunker-busting smart bombs out of F-111 bomb bays over Baghdad in ’91.

  Blueprints which were now guiding the former Marine unerringly through the corridors toward his target, a black balaclava cloaking his face. Someone high up at Langley had called in a marker, and GSG-9’s Colonel Mueller had been most cooperative.

  He’d only encountered two crew members below decks. Both of them unarmed, both of whom he’d managed to avoid. Thank God.

  All of their intel dictated that if an alarm was raised, al-Harbi’s security team would handle it themselves. That the prince valued his privacy too much to brook interference by law enforcement.

  Things like that…were impossible to predict. That’s what he had told Carter—that was reality.

  Arriving just outside the stateroom, Tex reached forward with a gloved hand, gently testing the doorknob. Locked. He could hear music coming from within the room, a low, insistent, throbbing beat. He didn’t know what they called it, didn’t care. It would be enough to mask his movements.

  Holstering the Smith & Wesson, he drew a small lockpick set from a pouch on his belt, holding one between his teeth as he worked with the other two, listening to the tumblers of the lock move one by one under the steady pressure.

  There.

  There were no lights on in the room as the Marine slipped inside, the only illumination the faint light from topside—coming through a porthole. Casting vague shadows across the room. And the music continued, not overpowering in its volume, just loud enough to prove distracting.

  Tex brought his pistol up in his right hand, its cold muzzle sweeping the room as he closed the door gently behind him. His eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness.

  Rachel Mancuso was lying there asleep on her side in the bed—facing away from him, the ambient light touching the curve of her spine, rumpled sheets bunching around her hips to provide her only covering.

  And TALISMAN…was nowhere to be seen.

  1:04 A.M.

  “…sitrep. I repeat, I need your sitrep.”

  No response. Lieutenant Ibrahim Farraj swore under his breath, glancing across the bridge at the Khaybar’s captain. It was as if he could feel the evil of the night surrounding him, clutching at his throat. He’d had a bad feeling about all of this—ever since taking over as the head of al-Harbi’s security a year before.

  Abnormal secrecy, even for one of the usually paranoid Gulf princes. Meetings late in the night, shadowy contacts—which was not to mention the prince’s own distasteful “proclivities.”

  “What’s going on?” the captain asked, a nervous edge to his voice. Ibrahim didn’t bother answering him—the man was a civilian, after all. He didn’t “need to know,” and ten years as an officer in the Jordanian Joint Special Operations Command hadn’t left Ibrahim inclined to satisfy people’s curiosity.

  Drawing his own HK45 from its holster on his hip, he beckoned for two of his men to follow him. He pushed open the door of the yacht’s bridge, the ocean breeze striking him in the face as he keyed his earpiece. “Dahabi, I need a twenty on the principal.”

  1:05 A.M.

  Where is al-Harbi? As if in answer to his unspoken question, Tex suddenly heard the sound of running water—a toilet being flushed. A thin slice of light showed under a door to his right. No doubt the door to the head.

  All these years out of the Corps, and that’s still how he thought of a toilet. Some things never left you.

  He glanced over at the sleeping form of the girl, a vague sense of disquiet filling him. As th
ough something was wrong. Very wrong.

  There was no time, the rattling of a latch coming from the head. Tex brought the Smith & Wesson up just in time to cover TALISMAN as he emerged, fumbling with the fly of his jeans.

  He’d taken two steps back into the room when he looked up, his mouth opening in shock at the sight of the masked, black-clad figure standing in front of him.

  The pistol aimed at his bare chest.

  “W-w-who are you?” the young man stammered, fear shining from his dark eyes. “What do you think you are doing here?”

  It was a paper-thin attempt at bravado. From a man who had financed the taking of so many American lives on that night in Vegas.

  Christmas Eve.

  There were so many things that could have been said—so many unanswered questions. But the big man had never been one for words…and Langley hadn’t sent him to collect intel.

  He’d been sent to execute vengeance.

  “I came to take you out,” Tex replied simply. “And her home.”

  And to his surprise, a faint, nervous chuckle escaped al-Harbi’s throat. “I wish you luck,” he replied, inclining his head toward where the girl slept.

  There was something there in his voice…a curious note of resignation.

  Never taking his gun off the Saudi, Tex circled the bed, dropping to one knee at her side. The college student’s eyes were closed as if in sleep, but it was “sleep” of the Biblical variety—her chest unmoving, no breath coming from her lips.

  Bruises discolored her tanned, golden skin, the dark imprint of fingers against her smooth throat.

  Dead.

  His coal-black eyes flashing angry fire, the Texan reached over, pressing two fingers against the side of the girl’s neck. Checking for a pulse. Only confirming what he already knew…

  “Why?” he spat, nausea surging within him. Death was his life, he’d seen it a hundred times before—but each time it was different, unique in a macabre way.

  A cruel smile passed across the young Saudi’s lips, the look of a sated animal. “Breath play,” he shrugged. “Heightens the senses. She even enjoyed it…the first couple times.”

  Without warning, Richards brought the pistol up, slamming the butt into the side of al-Harbi’s face—sending him reeling.

  He staggered back, clutching at his face in surprise, blood trickling from a gash on his cheek.

  At that moment, a knock came at the door. A soldier’s knock, hard—authoritative. Insistent. “Prince Yusuf? Is everything all right, sir?”

  All right? Nothing was “right” about this, about the woman lying dead only feet from them.

  Tex gestured with the barrel of the Smith & Wesson, his dark eyes issuing a warning as he glared at al-Harbi. “Get rid of him.”

  1:08 A.M.

  His men were nowhere to be found, Ibrahim realized, glancing across the fantail of the yacht—back to where the Eurocopter sat on its pad.

  They had just… disappeared. And once more, he found himself regretting that he had ever come into the employ of Yusuf ibn Talib al-Harbi.

  He’d had the chance once, he thought, running a hand across his smooth-shaven chin. When he’d left the Jordanian Army.

  The chance to leave all of this behind—to go back to America.

  The memories were still bright from his years at the United States Army War College, representing his country as an international student. Memories of Pennsylvania, of the Cumberland Valley cloaked in spring green. Of a land of opportunity. I’ll be back here…one day.

  But he hadn’t. Protecting a man like al-Harbi brought more money in a month than anything else would in a year. Even in America.

  Something caught his eye in the darkness and he stooped down, his finger wiping at wetness on the deck. It took him barely a moment to realize what it was.

  Blood. A fine mist of it.

  And he knew in that moment that working for the prince had brought something else.

  Death.

  1:09 A.M.

  “I’m fine, Sergeant Dahabi. Just fine,” TALISMAN repeated, staring into the muzzle of Richards’ Smith & Wesson. “Now…go away.”

  “Understood, sir,” came the voice from the other side of the door. “I was just following my orders.”

  “And you take them from me,” the young Saudi snapped back, raising an eyebrow as footsteps receded in the corridor outside. “Satisfied?”

  Tex nodded, the gun never wavering in his hand.

  “So—what are you planning to do now?” al-Harbi asked, folding his arms across his chest. “Kill me?”

  It was a question that was destined to never be answered, for the next moment the door of the stateroom came crashing in under the weight of a booted foot—the sergeant who had knocked appearing in the entry.

  His AK-74 coming up.

  Tex threw himself sideways as the rifle’s muzzle erupted in flame, bullets whistling through the air around him. Whether TALISMAN had used a distress code—or whether the sergeant had been alerted by something else—he would never know, bringing his own gun to bear as he hit the floor.

  He fired once, twice—the Smith & Wesson’s throaty cough drowned out in the hail of fully-automatic fire. The first round splintered the frame of the door near the sergeant’s head. The second buried itself in his shoulder.

  To his credit, he didn’t drop the rifle, but it gave Tex all the opening he needed. The semiautomatic came up, steady in both hands as he fired two more shots—almost as one, a single ragged hole opening where the bridge of the sergeant’s nose had once been.

  The man’s rifle fell from nerveless fingers, his body swaying in the doorway for a split-second before crumpling to the carpet.

  Tex glanced over to see al-Harbi standing there eyes wide, still frozen in the same place he’d been when the firefight started.

  And the Marine shot him, through the forehead, watching as he toppled back, crashing into a small chair as he went down.

  Vengeance.

  Tex walked over, putting another bullet between his eyes as he lay there on the plush carpet of the stateroom. For Vegas.

  And Rachel Mancuso.

  He bent down on one knee, slipping a small round object between al-Harbi’s lips.

  A reminder of all that had gone before.

  Ejecting the Smith & Wesson’s half-empty mag, he replaced it with a fresh one from his belt before heading for the door.

  Voices in the corridor outside…to the right, by the sound of them. Back toward the stairs he had taken to get here.

  The game had been up from the moment Sergeant Dahabi had opened fire, the Texan thought, glancing at his watch.

  Six minutes. Six minutes till the French patrol came within range.

  Six minutes that could mean the difference between a successful exfil and spending the rest of his life in a French prison. He went prone on the floor and grabbed for the sergeant’s AK-74, briefly ejecting the magazine to check the remaining rounds. Twenty or so by the weight of it, maybe fewer—few enough.

  And then the voices lowered to cautious whispers. They were out there, the rest of al-Harbi’s security detail. Waiting for him. Formulating a plan of attack.

  He spotted Rachel Mancuso’s purse sitting on a low table just a couple feet away and tore it open, his fingers closing around a small round compact. A mirror.

  Leaning back with his spine pressed up against the doorjamb, he reached out, angling the mirror carefully so that he could see down the hall.

  His surveillance lasted barely two seconds before he saw a gun come up from one of the men clustered at the end of the corridor, glass flying as the mirror shattered from the impact of a round. More rounds slamming into the doorframe as he rolled away, a splinter of wood jabbing into his bicep.

  He reached over to jerk it from his flesh, gritting his teeth as blood trickled down his arm. Time to move, but there was no way out. Not past the five men he had seen stacked up for assault. Not without cover.

  “There is no escape,”
a hail from down the corridor informed him, echoing the thought. “But this night doesn’t have to end in your death.”

  The man’s English was good, very good—with barely a trace of accent. Confirming his high opinion of the men al-Harbi had hired. The men he was going to have to get past.

  A glance toward the porthole assured him that there was no means of escape there. Barely large enough for a small monkey, let alone his own six-foot-four frame.

  “We can negotiate,” the voice continued, “but first I must assure myself of the safety of my principal.”

  Negotiate. Of course.

  Richards reached down, plucking a small steel cylinder from his dive belt. One ace to play.

  Raising himself up into a crouch, he plucked out the pin with his teeth, holding it for a half-second longer than necessary before pitching it gently into the corridor outside…

  Ibrahim Farraj saw the object come rolling out of the room, his mind processing the reality of what was about to happen. Flash-bang.

  He tried to scream a warning, but there was no time—not even to turn his face away from the blast. The stun grenade went off a split-second later, an eardrum-shattering blast shaking the Khaybar, a blinding white light filling the corridor.

  It was like gazing into the face of the sun.

  He reeled against the side of the corridor, his ears ringing as he struggled to regain his balance. He never heard the shot, but suddenly the head of the man beside him snapped back, his blood spraying over Ibrahim’s face.

  No. He heard his own voice screaming the word, echoing again and again in his ears, bringing up his HK45 in both hands as he staggered forward, sweeping the corridor.

  No shooter. The lieutenant found himself at the door of the stateroom, his vision still shaky…gazing in at the prostrate body of Yusuf ibn Talib al-Harbi.

  “Ya Allah,” he whispered, still struggling to process what had just happened. Oh, God.