McCoy stared across the room at Rahim, who stared back defiantly in the light from the laptop. Despite the fate of his friends who lay twisted on the floor amidst the rubble, Rahim’s expression remained fierce. His weapon, a 9mm pistol he’d stolen from FOB Porter, lay on the far side of the laptop. It had been a terrible mistake to leave it there. But he showed no fear or regret as he glanced down at the silencer affixed to the near end of McCoy’s weapon.
“Who’s your handler?” McCoy demanded in the local dialect. Slight surprise registered in Rahim’s expression. “You must be getting help from someone. Tell me who it is,” McCoy continued calmly as defiance returned to the young boy’s sharp facial features. “Don’t be stupid. I can make arrangements.”
Throughout history Afghans had gained a reputation as warriors who won a battle or fought to the last man, with no in-between. Three decades ago, Rahim’s relatives had defeated a much larger, much better-equipped Soviet army and sent them home in disgrace, collective tails between their communist legs — with help from a Texas congressman named Charlie Wilson.
This kid wasn’t giving up anything, McCoy realized. It wasn’t in his genes to back down or negotiate.
The boy lunged for his pistol, and McCoy shot him in the head. Blood spouted from the skull gash out onto his dead comrades as the kid finished a short death struggle with an anguished moan and an eerie gurgle. Rahim and the two other boys had murdered thirty-six Marines and wounded another thirty-three. They were guilty; they’d gotten what they deserved; and orders were orders.
Commander McCoy leaned back against the wall, removed her cover, and shook her hair out as she gazed down at Rahim’s contorted death mask. She had no problem carrying out her orders — even this one in which all three targets were barely adolescents. It was her job, and she accepted that without regret or remorse.
She took a deep breath and then exhaled heavily. Still, it was time to get away for a while. There would be that mission to North Korea first, but then she’d get her R&R. And she knew exactly where that would be.
Kodiak Island, Alaska.
CHAPTER 2
“Sir?”
Troy Jensen’s eyes flashed open. He hadn’t actually been asleep, just dozing to conserve energy. He was a light sleeper to begin with, but at this point in such an intense mission he rarely slept until it was done. He could go seventy-two hours without it and still function normally. So far it had been only thirty-nine.
“Yes?”
“The guide’s here,” Jim Bennington called from the other side of the zipped tent flap.
“I’ll be right out.”
Troy lifted up on one elbow and gazed down at the young woman who was lying on her back beside him, naked. She clearly had no problem sleeping, and he took a moment to envy her ignorance as she snored lightly.
It was stiflingly hot and humid in the jungles of eastern Venezuela, especially this late in the afternoon. But he and the woman hadn’t stripped naked to stay cool. Until twenty minutes ago they’d been engaged in quiet but crazy sex, which had gone on nearly uninterrupted for an hour. She’d been impressed with his stamina, gasping so over and over, in between demands for more.
Finally, she’d begged for a break and had quickly fallen into a deep slumber when he granted her request.
Troy rose to his feet, stepped into his comfortable nylon fishing pants, and pulled them up. He loved having sex before battles. It didn’t distract him at all — just the opposite. It got his alpha adrenaline pumping and made him focus on the mission even more when the interlude was over.
He loved Latinas, too. He always had. They were wild and passionate women who screamed every lewd thing they imagined during intercourse as soon as they imagined it, without considering or caring how the words might make them sound — at least, the ones he’d been with had. Troy found that level of uncloaked female passion at the moment of climax incredibly intoxicating.
The beautiful, dark-haired woman asleep on the tent floor had been no different. He’d been forced to cover her mouth with his hand several times so the other men in camp wouldn’t hear all the crazy things — which had turned her on even more. Turned out she liked being restrained.
She’d gotten him off three times in the last hour, the second time so intensely he’d almost yelled out with pleasure himself. Fortunately, he’d been able to stifle it.
He cast another hungry glance at her exotic features, so tempted. They wouldn’t begin the assault until at least midnight, and that was still hours away. But after a few moments he pulled the long-sleeve, bamboo-lined Free Fly shirt over his head and laced his boots up. It was time to focus on the mission.
“This is Pablo,” Bennington informed Troy as he emerged from the tent, gesturing at the dark-skinned man standing beside him. “He’ll lead us to your target. Whatever that is,” Bennington added.
Troy shook Pablo’s hand. He appreciated that the guide had remained closemouthed about the objective — as he’d been strictly ordered to do by Troy’s messenger.
“Pablo came down from Guayana City,” Bennington continued. “He’s sorry he’s late, but the morning storms clogged the roads. Plus, he couldn’t be obvious about what he was doing or where he was going. He’s worried he’s been watched during the last few days. He claims to have visions, and the one he had last night wasn’t good.”
Bennington was short and muscular with a shaved head, probably a Green Beret, Troy figured, though he wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know the man’s rank.
Troy’s uncertainty wasn’t a failure to be diligent. It was by design. Tonight’s mission was being waged against a formidable enemy, a man who had more money and more weapons than most countries. A man who was brutally vindictive and, on top of everything else, lately rumored to be going insane. If anyone in the team was captured, the torture would be extensive and excruciating, so unbearable the victim would surely give up honest answers to anything he was asked. The less the five men on this mission knew about each other, the better.
“How sure are you that the target is at the compound?” Troy asked. It seemed far-fetched that anyone would be watching this man.
“Eighty percent,” Pablo answered in a thick Spanish accent. He was the same height as Bennington but very thin. Gaunt to the point his knuckles and elbows seemed on the verge of piercing his taut, dry-looking skin. “Maybe.”
Eighty percent in this line of work was excellent, even with a hesitant “maybe” thrown in at the end. Anticipation surged through Troy’s body. Daniel Gadanz’s severed head would make one hell of a trophy.
Noise on the sprawling First Manhattan trading floor had reached a fever pitch. Men and women shouted into phones and at each other as they gestured wildly, in some cases seemingly to no one in particular. And the sum of their voices created a dull roar in the gigantic room, which overlooked Wall Street from the twenty-seventh story of the firm’s shimmering, glass-encased headquarters.
Minutes ago the Federal Reserve had announced a major shift in monetary policy. A tightening, which had sent interest rates spiraling skyward. Conversely, bond prices were suffering the China Syndrome, burning through every circuit breaker on the plunge down as if the chain reaction couldn’t be stopped.
The Fed hadn’t used a megaphone to shout its strategy shift from the highest peak around — just the opposite. They’d whispered it, as they usually did. This time by subtly and slightly raising the reserve requirement for the nation’s banking system. But that was more than enough to cause the panic.