The four card players were accounted for — if they tried to get in the mix, he’d off them like a bad habit. Collateral damage was unavoidable in these sorts of incursions. Nature of the beast, Jack thought, and he silently wished them winning hands and the good sense to duck for cover instead of trying to help the cleric.
On the table beside him the satellite phone’s display pulsed, indicating an inbound call. There was only one person who knew the number, and Jack moved swiftly to answer.
“Honey Badger,” he answered softly. The line hissed like a cobra, and then his superior’s unmistakable voice rang from the speaker.
“Abort. Repeat, abort.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“You’ve been blown.”
“Blown? How?”
“Just get out of there. It’s over. Someone leaked the details on the web an hour ago — we just heard. Clock’s ticking. Expect the Pakistanis to be serious about nailing you. Do whatever it takes to get away clean.”
“Are you running interference?”
“Yes. That’s why you’re still alive. But we can only stall them so long. Move. Now.”
“Roger that. I’ll call when clear.”
Jack hung up and thought for a moment, and then tapped his earbud again and relayed the news. At the far end of the block a car started its engine and pulled away. Jack didn’t wait to see anything more. His crew were all big boys. They had their crisis-contingency plan down pat, and would each make their way out of the country using different routes.
Thank God he overthought every mission and was hyper-paranoid. Many would have just stuck with the default protocol rather than take the time and money to set up an alternative known only to them. But Jack wasn’t one of the many. The shrapnel and bullet scars were a reminder of that every time he showered.
He quickly dismantled the .50-caliber Barrett that he’d modified for easy disassembly and packed it into a black nylon duffle with the AKM and the magazines. Last to go in were the goggles and the balaclava.
Jack was down the stairs and out the door in twenty seconds, and he rushed to the iron front gate as he heard the steady beat of helicopters approaching. So much for stalling. It would be close.
He pushed the gate open and moved hurriedly down the crumbling sidewalk, all subterfuge abandoned. He needed to get out of the area before some bright Pakistani officer established a cordon around the perimeter of the neighborhood to stop anyone from leaving.
At the corner he turned down a gloomy street, the streetlights long ago burned out, and jogged to a Toyota Hilux truck. He slid behind the wheel and tossed the bag onto the passenger side. The cab was dark, its interior bulb removed as a precaution.
It was the little things that could mean the difference between life and death, he knew.
The motor started with a cough, and he dropped the transmission in gear. He was two blocks away when he saw the aircraft in his rearview mirror: two helos, their spotlights blinding, beams sweeping over the rooftops of the area he’d just left.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, and fought the urge to floor the gas. If it was his lucky night, he’d make it. If not, well, he couldn’t allow himself to be captured. His hand brushed the grip of the pistol in his belt and he scowled. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but there were worse things than death.
Sirens blared in the distance, and he tried to estimate where they were coming from. If the local cops were in on this, his odds dropped precipitously. Jack’s mind raced over the abbreviated discussion with his control. Someone had posted the details of a top-secret black op nobody knew about. What did it mean?
That they had a leak was obvious.
But how could their network have been compromised?
It was impossible.
The howl of a nearby siren insisted it was all too real.
A police truck rounded the corner and accelerated toward him. Jack debated his options as he watched the vehicle draw near in his side mirror, and he was about to stomp on the brakes and put the Hilux into a controlled skid when the police truck screeched onto a side street, its tires howling in protest.
“Easy, Jack,” he whispered. He suddenly wanted a drink more than anything in the world, despite having been dry for a decade. In his mind’s eye he could see the warm amber of the bourbon, smell the tang of the sour mash, taste the searing pleasure as it slid down his throat and warmed him with well-being. “Old habits die hard,” he said under his breath, and continued at a moderate pace, ears straining for any indication of pursuit.
On the outskirts of the town he eyed the fuel tank. It was half full, which would easily get him to Peshawar, where he’d lie low for a few days before crossing into Afghanistan. Driving at night in the region was borderline suicidal at the best of times, but he didn’t have much choice.
As reluctant as he was to do it, he stopped by a dumpster and jettisoned his weapons. They would incriminate him, and there was no point in making it easy for those after him. That there would be a manhunt was a given, but nobody would report the guns, instead selling them on the thriving black market and pocketing several months’ living expenses.
With a final look at the road behind him, he climbed behind the wheel and pointed the truck west, toward the Khyber Pass — and hopefully, escape.
Chapter 2
Christine Whitfield glanced up as the front door of her boyfriend’s apartment opened. She could immediately see that he was agitated, and something else. His normally placid expression had been replaced by one of fear — an emotion that was out of place on his unlined, twenty-something face.
“What’s wrong, Liu?” she asked. “I thought you were in Guandu till tomorrow.”
“We have to leave,” he snapped, moving to his laptop computer. “Now.”
“What? Why?”
“I got a tip from a friend. Something went wrong. Grab your computer. Leave nothing behind. I’ve got a taxi waiting downstairs.”
“But where are we going?”
“Thailand. We can disappear there. At least long enough to figure out how bad this is. But assume it’s the worst.”
“At this hour?”
“I called my brother before I got on the road. He’s arranged for a private plane.”
Another look at Liu’s face convinced her. He was dead serious, his eyes wide with alarm. She leapt to her feet. “Who’s after you?” she asked.
“MSS — Ministry of State Security. Or somebody else. Could be anyone. Doesn’t really matter what the initials are, does it?”
“But how?”
“I have no idea.” He paused as he finished stowing his computer, and fixed her with a steady gaze. “We can figure that out later. What I know is that if they get us, we’ll never be seen again.”
“But you haven’t done anything wrong to the Chinese. Why would MSS cooperate?”
“That never stopped them. They’ll invent something. You know how the country works. Anything’s for sale for the right price.”
She shook her head. “Have you told me everything?”
“We can talk about it on the plane. Pack whatever you can, and don’t forget your passport.”
Five minutes later they were on their way to the airport, the taxi driver uninterested in the odd pair — a tall blonde and a local. They watched the buildings fly by as he navigated the empty streets, the radio playing a popular Chinese pop song that had caused a sensation due to its risqué lyrics. Christine was sorely tempted to interrogate Liu, but a glance at him convinced her to wait. She trusted him implicitly, and if he felt they were in danger, right or wrong, she’d follow his lead.
The main section of the airport was closed and the huge glass terminal dark. Only a few security guards prowled the grounds. They pulled onto a side access road and through a gate that stood open, and drove to where a half-dozen small prop planes sat on the tarmac. At the far end an ancient Cessna 172 waited with its running lights glowing. As they drew near, they spotted a slight Chinese man standing by the fuselage — the pilot.