King's Ransom Page 7

  The Arab had a tight schedule to keep.

  Specks of light materialized in the distance. This next step needed to go smoothly, so the Arab lightly placed his hand on his driver’s shoulder. “Stay calm, Omar. We have all the necessary documents. Everything will be fine.”

  The driver gave a curt nod but no reply.

  The Masnaa border crossing was the primary customs checkpoint between Syria and Lebanon. Anyone traveling from Damascus to Beirut, or vice versa, had to pass through it.

  The traffic bottlenecked and they waited in line for thirty minutes before a soldier beckoned them forward. He motioned for Omar to roll down his window.

  He scrutinized them closely then glanced around the vehicle. Omar looked as though he might shit his pants, while the Arab was sedate, his gaze straight ahead.

  The soldier searched the rear of the vehicle, then came back to the window. “Lebanese citizens?” he asked.

  The Arab nodded at Omar. “My cousin is. I’m Syrian.”

  “Do you have passports?”

  They both nodded and began reaching for them when the soldier waved them on. “Pull through that bay there,” he said, pointing. “Safe travels. These are dangerous times.”

  The bay was a small opening, almost like a garage, that allowed passage through a white stone building. They had to wait in line again, but they passed through the checkpoint ten minutes later without any problems.

  Omar was visibly relieved as they sped away from Masnaa; the Arab didn’t have the heart to tell him his relief was unwarranted. If they could breeze through customs that easily, anyone could.

  Over the next hour and a half the 4Runner traveled Lebanon’s full width, a total distance of less than forty miles. When they entered into Beirut proper they turned to the southwest.

  The Arab directed Omar into a gated parking lot. There were other cars parked there, but not many. They backed into a space as far from the light poles as possible and waited in the shadows.

  The Arab cracked his window, letting the briny Mediterranean air waft inside. It had been nearly sixty hours since he had last slept and closing his eyes felt wonderful.

  “Sir,” Omar said. The Arab forced his eyes back open. “A white sedan is approaching from the north.”

  Hiram was early.

  The compact sedan pulled into the same lot but didn’t park near them. Hiram parked away from the lights on the opposite side. When he climbed out and started toward them, Omar noticed his uniform.

  “He works at the airport?” he asked.

  The Arab didn’t respond. The only thing Omar needed to know was how to drive the vehicle.

  Hiram approached leisurely, never leaving the shadows. As he came alongside the 4Runner, the Arab rolled his window down and produced a small envelope from inside his garments.

  “He’ll be waiting in your terminal. He’s on the 9:15.”

  Hiram nodded, took the envelope, and set off across the parking lot.

  After assuring Hiram made it safely inside, the Arab told Omar it was time to go. They pulled onto the street and headed north.

  • • •

  Sayid Moussafi’s eyes were black.

  Not dark brown. Black.

  When other kids teased him about it growing up, his mother had told him it was a trait inherited from his father, that he should be proud of it. Well, now he was. For he knew he hadn’t simply inherited his ominously dark features; they were born out of the hatred he harbored in his soul.

  That hatred was why he was here.

  He sat in a hard plastic chair and pretended to flip through a magazine. Outside the window, he could see them fueling the plane he would soon board. As he turned the pages of the magazine, he saw their faces in his mind: his father, his wife, his daughter. All taken from him.

  All murdered by the Syrian government.

  His father had been tortured and killed when Sayid was twelve. His wife and three year old daughter had been killed by a barrel bomb in Aleppo thirteen months ago.

  Sayid was at work when it happened. He found what was left of them when he got home and was forced to do the most nightmarish thing a father and husband could ever be asked to do: he picked up the pieces of his family. Literally.

  The intercom buzzed again. It was time.

  He stood in line at the gate, a single bag hanging from his shoulder. When he reached the counter the attendant took his ticket, stamped it, and slid something in behind it.

  Once he was seated on the plane, Sayid took out the envelope. It was actually two envelopes, one inside the other. The inner package was to be delivered to someone very important. It was sealed. But tucked inside was something for him. Leaning away from the passenger beside him, he took it out and unfolded it.

  It was in the Arab’s handwriting.

  Thank you for your help, my friend. I will never forget it. When you carry out your task, you will be followed. It is crucial you do not evade them. Let yourself be seen. Then do as we discussed. If things go well, we will see each other again soon.

  Never forget—the fight for justice is always worth the cost.

  Ten minutes behind schedule, the plane lifted off the tarmac at Beirut Rafic Hariri International Airport, bound for Istanbul.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Wytheville

  71 hours remaining

  Five miles in twenty-four minutes. That was his record.

  He was the top performer in The Unit, with second place trailing by more than forty seconds. But that had been ten years ago. Carson was still in excellent physical condition, far exceeding most men his age, but prime had long since come and gone. He felt every one of his thirty-seven years as he hustled up the gravel road toward his truck.

  His flashlight was off, so he was sprinting into darkness, the gravel beneath his feet and the weak moonlight overhead his only sources of guidance. Running in such visibility was a risk, but so was revealing his position.

  Suddenly, there it was again. The red flash.

  Carson didn’t slow down. He knew his best hope of survival was getting back to the truck as quickly as possible. Lee had probably just installed a security camera or something on the outbuilding.

  He slowed to a jog as the realization hit him. A camera.

  In special operations, success and failure are usually only separated by a few seconds. Within those few seconds the operator has to make a choice, and the outcome—success or failure, life or death—is directly dependent upon what option is selected.

  The seconds ticked by as Carson stared into the darkness. It was an enormous risk, possibly even a setup. But it was also an invaluable opportunity. One that may help save his brother’s life.

  In the next moment Carson was sprinting into the woods. He couldn’t risk running into a tree and knocking himself unconscious, so he turned the Maglite on a low setting that allowed him to see a few feet in front of him. If he was right and they were watching, they would know exactly where he was.

  Then again, if they were watching, they probably already did.

  The small building was less than fifty yards into the woods and it came into clear view. It was on a slight rise; beyond it, the ridge rose steeply toward the sky.

  Carson jumped over a creek at the base of the hill and climbed the last few yards up to the shed. It was made of brick and had been built on a concrete slab. There were no windows and only one door.

  Swinging the flashlight in short arcs, Carson searched for the camera. Another red flash revealed its position almost immediately. It was mounted in the top left corner of the wall, secured to the brick by a mounting bracket with a swing arm.

  Carson looked closer and realized it was indeed what he thought it was: a motion-activated security camera.

  Despite his six-foot-three-inch frame, the camera was nearly out of reach. He stood on his tiptoes, looking for the power switch. It appeared to have been electrically wired into the building, in which case getting the information he needed was going to be difficult. But
as he ran his hands along the underside of the device, he felt a square compartment.

  He shone the light on it and saw it was meant for five D batteries. That was a good sign. He then felt the backside of the camera and finally found it.

  The bullet slammed into the brick just above his head.

  He fell onto his stomach. He tasted blood. Another round hit the brick just inches above where he was laying, driving a large hole in the building and spraying stone shrapnel in all directions.

  Carson didn’t hesitate. He drew his .45 and sprayed three cover rounds toward the ridge, where he was certain the shooter was perched. He then stood up and hurried back to the camera, felt along the rear of the device, and depressed a small button.

  The object fell into his hand. He stuffed it in his pocket just as another bullet whizzed past his face, this time hitting the camera square on, obliterating it.

  He sprinted down the embankment, jumped the creek, and moved as quickly as he could through the trees. He had lost his flashlight back at the building, so he ran with his arms extended in hopes of preventing a face-first collision.

  He made it back to the gravel road relatively unscathed. The shooter had gone silent. That, he knew, was far from a good thing. They were now both on the move, playing a deadly game of cat and mouse.

  He pumped his arms, willing his body to move faster. His pistol was drawn and his head was on a swivel. He wouldn’t be able to see movement in the darkness, but the sparse moonlight was enough to generate an optics signature.

  A faint ray of light refracting through a scope.

  He didn’t see one, but he hadn’t seen a signature prior to the barrage back at the outbuilding either. Just because he didn’t see it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  He breathed a brief sigh of relief when his truck finally came into view. He hurdled the oak tree lying across the road and climbed into the old Dodge, which miraculously started on the first try.

  He jerked it into reverse and turned around. Gravel flew as he slammed the accelerator to the floor, the truck shooting like a rusty rocket back up the ridge.

  Carson topped the hill and gained speed. The road grew narrow as it winded off to the east, and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He checked his rearview for any sign of life and saw none. But they were there. He was sure of it.

  He thought back to the satellite image and tried to recreate it in his mind. He couldn’t remember seeing any alternative routes off the Jacobs’ property. The gravel road was the solitary access point.

  Less than a minute later, Carson descended the steep slope back into the valley, hydroplaned across a stand of water, and regained traction as he sped toward the gate.

  He now had another choice to make.

  He remembered the flimsy lock and made his decision. Instead of slowing down as he approached the gate, he accelerated.

  He clambered for his seat belt and got it fastened just as the truck slammed head-on into the wrought iron postern. Carson’s head snapped forward and the airbag hit him in the chest, driving him back. But he didn’t take his foot off the accelerator.

  With the Wal-Mart lock snapped in half, the gate burst open and he flew through it, the truck stammering worse than ever before. There was a dent in the grill and copious clouds of steam rose from beneath the hood.

  The truck went airborne as Carson took the bridge at fifty miles an hour. A vicious popping sound erupted from the suspension when it landed, but somehow all the wheels stayed attached and kept rolling.

  Over the next fifteen minutes Carson continually checked the rearview. He saw no one. It was as though his attackers, the same men that had killed Lee Jacobs’ family, had simply evaporated into the night air.

  When he turned left onto the rut-filled country road, he finally allowed himself to take a breath.

  It turned out to be ironic timing.

  Because that was the precise moment the assassins reappeared.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The black SUV roared toward him, eating up the pavement.

  Carson stomped on the accelerator and watched the speedometer slowly reach sixty before coming to a halt, oscillating around sixty-two and going no higher.

  Accepting the inevitable, he drew the Glock from his shoulder holster and sat it in the seat beside him. He then picked up the .45 and checked the rearview.

  The SUV was sixty yards and closing. He kept his focus on the road, moving only his eyes to monitor their approach. He rolled down the window.

  The Unit motto played in his mind: Stay in the fight.

  Thirty yards and closing. If these sonsabitches wanted a fight, that’s exactly what they’d get.

  At ten yards, a dark figure rose from the passenger seat of the SUV and hung out the window. His weapon was larger than a pistol, but shorter than a standard rifle. Carson recognized it as a submachine gun.

  But the bastard never got a chance to pull the trigger.

  Carson slammed the brakes and braced himself as the SUV crashed into him. The truck slid forward and rocketed through a shallow gulley; Carson broke his nose on the steering wheel.

  Before the driver even processed the fact that his compatriot with the MP5 was lying face down on the pavement, his neck bent at a fatal angle, Carson had the .45 out the window, sending an onslaught of hollow points at the SUV’s windshield.

  The glass was bulletproof. His first five rounds deflected harmlessly. He fired three more into the grill and two into the left front tire.

  The rounds ricocheted off the grill—the vehicle was armored. The front tire flattened but the rig didn’t slow or vary from its course—it had been fitted with composite run flats.

  “Dammit!” Carson screamed, and kicked the accelerator. He turned and fired four more rounds into the already-flat tire. The SUV swayed to the left, but corrected.

  The truck’s back glass and windshield exploded simultaneously.

  A quick check behind him revealed another man had assumed the position in the passenger seat. The man fired another bullet through the cab, but there was nothing left to shatter. Carson heard it buzz past his head and skim across the hood.

  Staying low, he reached for his duffle and dug out two extra clips. He jammed one in the .45, hung out the window, and returned fire. He fired five more rounds into the tire and three more into the windshield before a round ricocheted off the side paneling of the truck, nearly removing his head in the process.

  He turned and fired through the missing back glass. He smiled through gritted teeth as he saw the SUV’s windshield starting to give. He had put eight rounds within two feet of each other and a visible crack was starting to form.

  Another round slammed into the cab, missing him by inches. He took the steering wheel and started weaving, all while keeping his aim trained behind him.

  He rattled off six more rounds but the elusive movement had caused his own accuracy to suffer. All six rounds hit the windshield but they weren’t as tightly packed; the slab of glass somehow held.

  He shoved his last clip into the pistol and racked the slide. He jerked the wheel hard to the left, then right, taking the truck from shoulder to shoulder. A round blew out the passenger seat and took a chunk of the door with it.

  He glanced behind him and saw the MP5 was in the passenger seat again. The driver also had his window down, the pistol in his left hand spraying off rounds.

  The SUV accelerated, colliding hard with the truck. Carson lurched forward but kept the wheel straight. He turned and used the tactic for his own gain. The distance shortened, he sent three perfectly placed rounds into the windshield.

  It promptly fell inward.

  The SUV swerved hard to the left, the destroyed front tire struggling beneath the strain. Carson watched as the driver narrowly avoided a deep rut; had they hit it, they might have rolled.

  Carson tossed the empty .45 in the floorboard and picked up the Glock. He had fifteen rounds left. It wasn’t much, but the assassins were stumbling. He had to press
his advantage.

  He turned to fire at the driver but stopped short, his body consumed with agony. The pain was like a fire raging wildly through his nervous system.

  He was hit.

  He didn’t need to examine the wound to know the bullet had passed cleanly through his right shoulder. It had broken some bones and he felt warm blood sliding down his chest, but they would need a hell of a lot more than that.

  He turned to face his attackers. “Is that all you got?!” He fired off a three shot volley with the Glock. “Come on!” he screamed, firing two more bullets through the empty space where the windshield had been. “Come on!!!” Three MP5 rounds blew past his head but he kept screaming, lost in a fit of rage. “Come on, you son of a bitch!”

  He pulled the trigger ten more times before the Glock clicked, the magazine empty. The passenger was dead, but the third and final assassin, the driver, was still alive. And the SUV was still on four wheels.

  Carson threw the empty pistol in the floorboard and slumped low in his seat. His truck was still running but barely. It was dropping speed. It pressed forward in sputters and lurches, now moving less than fifty miles an hour.

  Carson kept the accelerator pressed to the floor as blood soaked his shirt and he tried to think of his next move.

  The SUV slammed into him again and it was all he could do to keep the truck from staggering off the road. He kept weaving, staying low as bullets tore apart the only vehicle his father had ever bought new.

  “Sorry, Dad,” he whispered.

  Suddenly, the salvo stopped. Seconds passed but Carson didn’t dare rise. His side-view mirror was gone but the one on the passenger side was still hanging on. Carson couldn’t believe what he saw in the reflection.

  There was a second vehicle approaching. His eyes widened when he saw gunfire erupt from inside it.

  The black SUV swerved but the sheer volume was overwhelming. The driver was forced to slow down, drawing even with the new arrival. He returned fire and promptly received a dose of his own medicine—the new vehicle was also armored.