Blown Coverage (27 page)
Authors: Jason Elam
As she chewed away the nervous energy, her mind drifted.
What’s
Riley doing right now? I wonder if
he’s
thinking about me, or if he even
thinks about me at all anymore. And why am I sitting here acting like a
stupid little seventh grader with a crush?
Shaking her head, she pulled her computer keyboard toward her and began the process of finding Riley’s hideaway.
TUESDAY, MAY 26, 9:00 P.M. CEST PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC
Death stood still, his stark bones only partially protected against the elements by the blue cloak draped over his shoulder.
In his left hand he held an hourglass. In his right, a bell. Nobody moved as they waited to see what Death would do.
Suddenly, Death raised his right arm and the bell rang out once, twice, three times. The crowd around Scott began to ooh and
aah as the bell continued ringing the time and the doors above Death and his three companions—Vanity, the Miser, and the Turk—opened
and each of the twelve apostles took his turn blessing the crowd and the city from his place on the amazingly intricate medieval
animated astronomical clock.
Eventually, the rooster crowed, the doors closed, and the onlookers dispersed as the chimes sounded out nine o’clock.
Scott faded away with the crowd and returned to his previous perch on the steps of the statue of Jan Hus. Five other members
of the ops team were positioned in alley entrances and church doorways at various points around Old Town Square. But Scott’s
Bohemian look fit in well enough with the ever-present European traveling hostel crowd to allow him to hide out in the open.
The night was perfect—mid-fifties with a fine mist creating arcs around the square’s lights. Scott pulled his trench coat
tighter around himself, though not tight enough to reveal the outline of the Magpul Masada assault weapon that was pressed
against his right side.
This weapon still amazed him. It was lighter than an M16, with a folding stock that made it perfect for concealment. But what
really set this weapon apart was its barrel—free-floating for increased accuracy and completely interchangeable. Right now,
all the team’s Masadas were fitted with AK-47 barrels, which meant that should gunplay erupt, the shell casings would initially
lead the Czech authorities in directions other than American special ops.
There was much less hustle and bustle than usual tonight, but there were still plenty of people braving the elements—mostly
couples walking arm in arm, being extra careful not to slip on the wet cobblestones. One area remained particularly busy—a
constant flow of people went in and out of the restaurants that made up the far side of the square.
Scott’s stomach grumbled at him as he watched the Italian restaurant where Lecha Abdalayev and two of his men were having
dinner with four members of the Abkhazian government-in-exile. In the window, he saw a pretty young woman using a fork and
spoon to twirl pasta heavily coated with some sort of white sauce.
Maybe
Abdalayev will bring out a doggy bag.
Abdalayev’s free passage from the Czech authorities was turning out to be both a blessing and a curse. On the plus side, Scott
and Hicks knew where their quarry was at all times. On the minus, the man was never isolated enough for the team to safely
take him.
The last two nights watching the Chechen had been completely futile, but tonight Scott felt the first rays of hope. Because
Abdalayev had chosen to have dinner in the middle of Old Town Square, he had a bit of a walk to get to his car. Also, this
was the first night dark enough to allow the team free movement.
The front door of the restaurant opened, and Abdalayev’s two companions walked out. They stopped under the awning and lit
cigarettes. As they joked back and forth, Scott could see their eyes scanning the square.
“Velvet One, this is Velvet Two. The goons are out. Get ready for movement.”
Scott had chosen the call signs for the operation in honor of the Velvet Revolution of 1989, when the Czechoslovakian people
had overthrown their communist government without firing a shot.
Gotta give folks like that some serious props.
“Copy, Velvet Two. Movement imminent,” Scott heard Hicks say through his earpiece.
Casually, Scott got up from the stairs and stretched. After taking one last look at the huge statue of the great religious
reformer, he slowly walked off in the direction of Abdalayev’s car. The dampness that had soaked through his clothes sent
chills into his skin as he moved through the square.
“Velvet One, Velvet Six. Party Boy is moving, but Party Host is still on the dance floor.” Abdalayev had left the restaurant,
but apparently the Abkhazians were still with him.
Not good,
Scott thought as he continued walking, giving a wide berth to a group of teens that had circled up with a hacky sack.
“This is Velvet One. If Party Host continues with Party Boy, we’re still a go. But Party Host only gets buzzed, not wasted.
Repeat, Party Host gets buzzed. Only Party Boy gets wasted. Copy?”
“Velvet Two copies,” Scott said, then listened as the rest of the team spoke their affirmations. Hicks had been very clear
that although Abdalayev’s men could be dealt with as needed, none of the Abkhazians should be killed. They could be hit with
the Tasers, but nothing more unless they fired on the team. This had the potential of making things very complicated in the
midst of battle, trying to figure out whom to shoot and whom to taze.
Scott ducked into a narrow alley between a flower shop and an art gallery. Abdalayev’s car was just around the corner. In
his mind Scott pictured everyone’s position—Jim was stretched out under some newspapers on a park bench across the street
from the car; Posada and Kruse would be coming up the street from the opposite direction; Kasay was tailing Abdalayev, watching
him from a distance. The rest of the guys were split into two vans, one here and one waiting on the opposite side of the square
in case things went all catawampus.
“Velvet One, Velvet Six,” came Kasay’s voice. “Party Host is breaking off. Repeat, Party Host is breaking off.”
“Copy, Velvet Six. Okay, boys, it’s party time.”
Scott’s heart started racing as the pre-action adrenaline hit his bloodstream full force. He was about to move into the dark
depths of the alley when the sound of coarse voices and boots scraping across the cobblestones came right up next to him.
Oh, great, the mist
must have muffled their approach.
Instinctively, Scott thrust his hips forward and pretended to urinate against the wall.
The three men spotted Scott as they passed the alley. Turning toward them, Scott locked eyes with Abdalayev. He shrugged his
shoulders sheepishly. One of the men said something in their harsh language, and all three laughed. They continued on.
“Velvet Two here. Party Boy’s rounding the corner.” The relief was evident in Scott’s voice. He slid out of the alley and
moved up behind the men. As he rounded the corner, shots began to ring out. Two double taps each from Posada and Kruse dropped
Abdalayev’s driver, who had been waiting for his boss with the car door open.
Instantly, the mercenary’s two companions had their pistols out and began returning fire. Abdalayev turned to escape back
the way he had come, but Scott came behind him ready to drop him with the Taser. Both men tumbled to the ground. Scott got
a handful of the Chechen’s shirt, but a fist to his ribs allowed the other man to break his grasp, scramble up, and run.
Jumping to his feet, Scott gave pursuit.
Ahead he saw muzzle flashes and heard more shots. One man dropped, but the other man kept running.
Kasay!
“Velvet One, Velvet Six is down in the square! Repeat, Velvet Six is down in the square,” Scott yelled. As he raced past,
he could hear Kasay groaning.
Scott was gaining on Abdalayev. Although he wasn’t in the best shape, his legs were longer and younger. To his right, toward
the restaurants, he could hear people shouting.
Stay where you are, folks!
Don’t
get caught up in this!
At the far end of the square, the two men passed through an archway and came alongside the massive, Gothic Týn Cathedral.
Scott dove for Abdalayev and caught him around the waist. Both men went down hard, their weapons clattering away. Scott pulled
himself up Abdalayev’s back and began driving his fist into the side of the man’s head. But the seasoned veteran had been
involved in too many fights to let himself get taken that easily.
Surprising Scott with his strength, Abdalayev rolled himself over. Scott felt a blow to his side that took his breath away.
Before he knew what happened, he was flung onto his back, and the Chechen mercenary was on top of him. A fist connected twice
with the side of his head. Scott’s vision grayed. Something flashed in the lights from the side of the cathedral, and far
back in Scott’s foggy brain he recognized it as a knife.
So this is the end,
he thought peacefully.
Suddenly, a body flew into Abdalayev. Scott rolled onto his side and saw Hicks drive his rifle butt into the Chechen’s face.
All the while, Hicks was trying to keep the onlookers back by yelling, “
Policie!
Policie!
”—the one Czech word that Scott had taught the team.
A loopy smile spread across Scott’s face.
Wow,
it’s
SuperJim,
he thought as the gray faded toward black,
come to save the day. . . .
TUESDAY, MAY 26, 1:45 P.M. MDT SILVERTHORNE, COLORADO
Riley trudged through the calf-high grass and thanked God again for his Doc Martens boots. He and Skeeter had too many other
things to be on guard for to take the time to examine each other’s bodies for ticks.
He had woken up in a foul mood this morning. Today was his dad’s funeral. Even now as he walked through the beautiful high
country, the bitterness of missing it burned in his throat.
What’s
Mom feeling? Does she really understand why
I’m
not
there?
Riley missed her desperately. He knew he could never be fully at peace until he heard her say that everything would be all
right.
Added to that, June 1 would have been his dad’s birthday, and this was about the time he usually started scrambling to find
a present. Last year, Riley had driven up to Wheatland to give him his gift in person—a Lincoln clay pigeon trap, fully automatic,
with a 320-target capacity. He could still hear his dad’s laughter each time the trap adjusted its position. Grandpa had been
there too, and the three of them had lost count of how many targets they’d burned through that afternoon. He did know it had
taken them a full ten minutes to shovel up the shells.
Riley stopped and squatted low. The day was warm even at this elevation, and Riley took off his cap to wipe his face with
his sleeve. Everything was quiet except for the wind blowing through the tops of the sixty-foot lodge pole pines and that
stupid dog’s barking. Carefully, Riley moved ahead, one slow step after another.
Then he spotted it—a thin wire three inches below the top of the grass. Riley walked to the tree where it was tied off, then
followed the wire twenty feet to the M49A1 trip flare. The thing looked like it had been around since the Vietnam era, but
beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Riley was grateful for what Scott had given them.
Riley slowly backed away from the device, then began the short hike to the next one. On the other side of the property, Skeeter
was doing the same thing. It had been four days since they had set the flares, and it was a wonder that some elk or moose
or overgrown deer mouse hadn’t triggered one of them.
What does that say about the
chances of a bad guy triggering one?
We’ve
got to look at these as nothing
more than lottery
tickets—
if they hit, great! But we certainly
shouldn’t
be
counting on them.
The breeze cooled his face, and Riley stopped for a moment to relish the feeling.
What would I say if I were at
Dad’s
funeral? That
he was a good man? That he taught me everything I know? That I only
speak in
clichés?
Think, what would I say? That Dad was a godly man, and through
his example he showed me what it means to live a godly life and what
it means to truly be a man.
Chills rose on Riley’s skin, telling him that he had nailed it.
Going to have to tell that to Mom,
he thought, continuing on.
As Riley walked, he felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. It was Meg Ricci again. She had been calling at least five
times every day, and her messages were becoming more and more frantic. Exasperated, Riley finally took her call.
“Meg, you’ve got to stop calling.”
Riley could hear the relief as the words gushed out. “Riley, it’s you! Finally! Are you okay? I was so worried about you.
How’s your mom? When are you coming back?”
“Meg, listen to me. You have got to stop calling me. I’m in the middle of something really important here.”
“Are you in the mountains? I read you were in the mountains. Where are you? Can I help you at all?”
“I can’t tell you where I’m at. I really can’t tell you anything.”
“Of course, of course. That’s fine. You and your top secret stuff.” Riley thought he could hear irritation in her words. “I’ve
just been so worried about you, and it seems like Alessandra is asking every hour for Uncle Riley. Are you all right up there?
Is Skeeter with you?”
“Meg, please, listen. I’m in the middle of what is probably a life-and-death situation. Your calls are not helping matters.
Please stop calling. I promise you that when this is all over, you and Aly and I will all go out to dinner or something.”
Riley could hear the hurt in Meg’s voice when she answered, “Sure, of course. We’ll do dinner. I didn’t mean to be a pain,
Riley. I was just worried about you.”
Riley rolled his eyes. “You weren’t a pain. You were just being a good friend. I’m just in a weird spot right now.”
“No, sure. You just do what you need to do. I’ll be waiting for your call. Sorry to have troubled you.”
“Meg, that’s not what I meant. You didn’t do anything . . .” Riley realized that he was talking to dead air. “That’s why men
become hermits,” he said as he thrust his phone back into his pocket. Shaking his head, he continued his search for the next
wire.
TUESDAY, MAY 26, 10:15 P.M. CEST
ŽIŽKOV
PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC
Scott felt as if his head were on the rack of a ball return at a bowling alley, and every thirty seconds or so someone bowled
another frame. He took a long swig of some brown carbonated drink that Kim Li had given him, then placed his forehead back
on the cool Formica table. The only solace he took was that thanks to Hicks’s creative use of his gun butt, Abdalayev was
probably feeling the same way.
At least everyone lived.
That was the best thing Scott could say for the way the operation had gone down. Actually, it was probably more accurate to
say that at least everyone from Team Velvet lived. Abdalayev’s driver and one of the men with him currently didn’t meet the
minimum heart rate level needed to sustain life.
I’m
sure
somebody somewhere will shed a tear for them, but I
can’t
imagine who.
Scott wasn’t the only one hurting in the CIA safe house situated in the largely Romany, or gypsy, district of Žižkov. Steve
Kasay was feeling it after taking three rounds to his protective vest, and Jay Kruse had needed to have Carlos Guitiérrez
do some fancy needlework on him after getting grazed on the thigh.
But at least they had their man, along with one bonus goon. The two men were awaiting their fates in adjoining bedrooms.
“How you feeling, tough guy?” Scott looked up to see Hicks standing next to him with a smile on his face.
“Like God confused my head with a Wiffle ball.”
Hicks laughed. “So, what I want to know is where’d you get that speed? I looked over and all of a sudden you were flying out
of there like you had just heard there was a free all-you-can-eat at Wahoo’s Fish Tacos.”
“Dude, I’ve got skills you can’t even imagine.” Pain quickly turned Scott’s smile into a grimace. “I’m just glad you showed
up when you did.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“Do you know in some Eastern cultures when you save someone’s life you must accept that person as your loyal companion for
the rest of your days?”
Hicks scowled. “It’s a good thing we’re not in an Eastern culture, or I’d pull my gun out and finish the job Abdalayev couldn’t.”
Scott turned his face back to the table. “Right now, my friend, I’d welcome it. So when are we going to talk to Party Boy?”
“Soon as I hear back from Tara on his buddy’s identity. I want to know whether he’s worth using or if he’s just throwaway.”
Hicks left to check on the prisoners, and when he did, some of the other guys moved in. Matt Logan congratulated “Jackie Joyner-Ross” on his athletic prowess. Kasay leaned in very close to his ear and said loudly, “We like your version of the rope-a-dope,
too! Very Ali-esque!” Kasay’s voice sent a painful rumble through the jungle of Scott’s muddled brain.
Before Kasay could pull back, Scott’s fist launched out, landing solidly on the other man’s bruised chest. Kasay cried out
in pain.
The guys watching burst out laughing. This was part of the postop adrenaline cooldown. All that energy was still rushing
through their veins, but the only ones they had to take it out on were each other.
“Scott, come here.” Scott turned to see Hicks waving him over. Easing himself out of the chair, he crossed the room.
“What’s up?”
“Just heard from Tara. That other guy in there is Doku Bakhmadov. It’s believed he’s number three in the Chechen Freedom Militia.”
“In other words, he’s probably a guy who knows stuff. Which means—”
“Which means we don’t have to put all of our eggs in Abdalayev’s basket.” Looking over Scott’s shoulder, Hicks said, “Hummel,
Logan, Li, go help Johnson carry bad guy two into Party Boy’s room.”
“Yes, sir,” the three men said in unison.
“Let’s go,” Hicks said to Scott, and together they entered the second bedroom. “Stand down,” Hicks commanded Gilly Posada,
who had been guarding the Chechen with a rifle pointed at his heart.
“Yes, sir,” Posada said, moving back but still keeping his weapon at the ready.
There was commotion at the doorway as the four men carried the other prisoner into the room still tied to his chair and cursing.
As soon as he saw his commander, though, he shut up.
“Move him right behind Party Boy,” Hicks ordered. The men set the chair down on the dusty wood floor three feet behind Abdalayev.
The leader of the militia had seen his better days. His left eye was swollen, and blood from a gash in his forehead had traveled
down his face and matted his long beard. When he noticed Scott, he asked in Russian, “How’s your head, boy?”
“Looks like it’s better than yours, old man,” Scott answered back in the same language.
A faint smile of surprise showed on Abdalayev’s face. Then, switching to English, he said to Hicks, “So, what brings you to
me?”
“Al-’Aqran,” Hicks replied.
“Ahh, I should have known,” Abdalayev said with a nod. “He’s been busy, has he not? He was an angry, bitter old man. Not at
all pleasant company.”
“Well, then, you shouldn’t feel that badly about telling us where you took him.”
Abdalayev slowly shook his head. “Tsk-tsk-tsk. Commander . . .”
“Hicks.”
“Commander Hicks, you know that is something I cannot do. Even mercenaries need to have their ethics.”
This time it was Hicks’s turn to shake his head. “Is that your final answer?”
“I’m afraid it must be,” Abdalayev said with a resigned smile.
“Too bad,” Hicks said as he pulled out his pistol and shot Abdalayev in the head. Blood and brain matter flew onto the militia’s
number-three man. Bakhmadov cried out. Hicks placed his boot on Abdalayev’s chest and tipped his chair back until it fell
into the other man’s lap.
Keeping his gun leveled at Bakhmadov, he said, “Do you speak English?”
The man looked at Hicks with huge, panicked eyes.
“I said, do you speak English?” Hicks asked again, drawing back the hammer on his gun.
“Little.
Nemnogo.
Little,” Bakhmadov blurted out.
“Scott, translate to Russian.”
Scott nodded and leaned in close to the man’s ear. The smell of fresh blood and flesh churned his stomach.
“You are not the one we are looking for, so I don’t care at all what happens to you. Thus, you have two choices: you will
either live or you will die.” Scott gave a simultaneous translation. “If you choose life, you will walk out of here a free
man. If you choose death, I will put away my gun, pull out my knife, and begin working on you until you change your mind.
Do you understand your choices?”
Bakhmadov nodded his head vigorously.
“Do you choose life?”
Again an emphatic affirmation.
“Good choice,” Hicks said as he holstered his gun. He reached down and pulled his knife out of its boot sheath.
Bakhmadov said something to Scott. “He wants to know if we can move Abdalayev off his lap as a sign of good faith.” Scott
was really hoping that Hicks would say yes. Abdalayev’s sightless, staring eyes gave him the creeps.
“Tell him that the fact that he is still alive is all the good faith he is going to get.” Hicks leaned in toward the blood-spattered
face of Bakhmadov. “Now, do you have any more questions for me?”
Bakhmadov shook his head. “
Nyet.
”
“Good. Now I’m only going to ask each question once. Give me a wrong answer and I remove a part of your face.” To emphasize,
Hicks used his knife to flick a little notch in the upper cartilage of the man’s ear. “Understand?”
“
Da!
”
“Very good. Now, where did your boss take al-’Aqran?”
Bakhmadov looked at the knife that Hicks now slowly twisted in front of his face and said, “Istanbul. It is where the Cause
has made its home.”
“Very good, Doku. May I call you Doku?”
The man nodded. Sweat was pouring down his face in red rivers.
“Who hired you, Doku?”
“A Saudi named Hamad Asaf. He works for al-’Aqran.”
“Where did you meet to arrange the deal?”
“Beirut. The meeting was arranged through Hezbollah.”
Scott’s mind started racing, putting together all the connections.
But he pulled his focus back when he heard the dangerously passive-aggressive tone of Hicks’s voice.
“Hmm, that’s very interesting. So, Doku, you know there have been some bad things happening in my country, do you not?”
Bakhmadov nodded his head rapidly. “
Da!
”
“And you’ve known all along who’s responsible for it, correct?”
“
Da,
” the Chechen answered softly.
“You can understand why that would make me very unhappy with you, can you not?” Hicks asked as he slowly scraped the edge
of his knife across Bakhmadov’s left cheek.
The other man winced. “I am so very sorry, sir.”
“I suppose you are,” Hicks said, reaching back to wipe the remnants of beard, flesh, and blood from his knife onto Abdalayev’s
shirt. “So, that’s why you’re going to tell me if you’ve heard of anything else that your friends in the Cause have planned.”
