Hamilton had been easy. The hotel room’s lock had opened in just over thirty seconds — longer, ironically, than had the hotel employed the sort of state-of-the-art electronic locks NSA could bypass remotely. Manus had waited until Hamilton came in, concussed him from behind with a single bearlike swat, and injected him with Diazepam. Hamilton had barely struggled, losing consciousness almost immediately. After that, it was easy for Manus to cut off his clothes, zip-tie his wrists, duct-tape his mouth, insert a Diazepam suppository, diaper him, and zip him and his belongings into a wheeled canvas cargo bag Manus knew from Hamilton’s medical records and driver’s license would be more than roomy enough for the man’s five-foot-seven, 130-pound frame.
He had been told Hamilton was staying at the hotel under a pseudonym and paying cash, so no one would ever even know what had become of the mysterious guest who had left without any word. If by any chance Manus had been picked up by cameras or was seen by any witnesses, the baseball cap, nonprescription eyeglasses, and fake beard would be more than adequate protection. The room safe would be found drilled and opened, true, but it wasn’t likely the hotel would want to advertise that. Manus had taken the passport he had found inside it, but Hamilton had been carrying everything else: wallet, phone, thumb drive. A specialist would examine the phone and the thumb drive. Manus didn’t know what would come of all that, but he knew the director would be happy.
It was a long drive, and Manus would have preferred the people taking delivery of Hamilton to come to him. They were Turkish, after all; they knew the territory better and could blend in better. But unsurprisingly, they preferred to offload as much risk as possible, and the director seemed all right with that. Which meant Manus was all right, too. He’d packed food and a thermos of coffee, so all he needed to stop for was gas and bathroom breaks. That, and inserting fresh suppositories.
The first time he pulled over to a deserted spot and opened the trunk, Hamilton struggled and tried desperately to speak through the duct tape. It meant nothing to Manus. He said to Hamilton, “I don’t want to talk to you. But I’ll give you some water. Do you want water?”
Hamilton nodded his head vigorously. It was hot in the trunk, the interior gamey with the man’s sweat.
“If you try to talk to me, I’ll refasten the duct tape and you won’t get any water. Do you understand?”
Hamilton nodded again.
Manus pulled free the duct tape and let Hamilton have a long drink. Predictably, the moment Manus took the bottle away, Hamilton started begging him to explain what was going on, to listen, to just please listen. Manus refastened the duct tape, pushed Hamilton down, stripped off the diaper, injected him again, inserted a suppository, and then held the man in place until his struggles had faded. The used diaper went into a plastic bag, which also went into the trunk, and he was back on the road, following the GPS nav system, in under three minutes.
The next time they pulled over, Manus told him any more talking and he’d get no more water for the rest of the trip. After that, during water breaks Hamilton kept quiet.
The rendezvous point was a town on the Syrian border called Kilis, which Manus supposed was ironic given Hamilton’s likely fate. But none of that was his concern. His job was to deliver Hamilton, and that was all that mattered to him. If he encountered a problem along the way, he was carrying fifty thousand lira to buy his way out of it. If that wasn’t persuasive, there was the SIG MPX-K machine pistol under a road map on the passenger seat. If all else failed, a panic button on a transmitter would instantly call in the spec ops personnel who were shadowing him, cleared to engage but ignorant of his mission.
He nodded, the radio blaring Turkish music he didn’t know but the vibrations of which he enjoyed. By the time the nav system indicated he was almost there, the sun was low in the sky. Manus pulled over and hung the SIG from a custom harness at the bottom of the steering wheel. Hard to spot through the window at a distance, instantly accessible if there were a problem. He opened the glove compartment, pulled out the Tanfoglio Force Pro F in nine millimeter, and eased it into the elastic holster in the back of his waistband. Then he double-checked the Cold Steel Espada folder clipped to his front pocket — a monster knife almost seventeen inches long when deployed, destructive as hell but unsuitable for everyday carry except by someone of Manus’s size. Of course, if things got to the point where he was stabbing people rather than shooting them, a lot would have had to go wrong, but it was better to have it and not need it. Finally, he slid the RMJ Tactical Berserker tomahawk from under the seat and placed it across his lap. Then he drove on.
A half mile later, he reached his destination — an abandoned gas station in the hills outside the city. He turned into the lot. A dusty white van was already parked there, three men with dark mustaches standing alongside it under the long shadow of a sagging portico. They were smoking, and other than the cigarettes, their hands were empty. That was a good sign. The director had told him they knew they were getting only a third of the payment on delivery, so if they didn’t follow the plan, they’d be leaving a lot on the table, and that was good, too. But maybe the upfront money was all they hoped to collect. And he didn’t know what might be concealed under their loose shirts, or whether there were others inside the van. So he watched them carefully, both hands on the wheel where the men could see them, the SIG just a six-inch reach away. They were hard-looking men, and he’d been told they were experienced, so they’d know to keep their hands in sight as he was keeping his. They’d understand he’d read anything else as an attack, and that he’d respond accordingly.
The man in the center, the tallest of the three, waved. Manus nodded and scanned the area. There was a rectangular concrete structure, paint peeling, graffiti-covered, the windows all blown out. Decent concealment and cover. A lot of scrub to the rear of the structure, but too far off for anyone but a sniper to meaningfully engage.
He swung around and parked a ways off, not close as they would have been expecting. He was facing the structure, the van between them, the rusting gas pumps behind the van. This way they couldn’t flank him, and if they tried to engage, they’d be stacked up and he’d have a clear field of fire. And the sun was at his back and in their faces, too. A small thing, but he’d make sure it was working to his advantage, not theirs.
They started walking toward him. He swung open the door and stepped out, staying behind it for cover and letting them see his hands but keeping within reach of the SIG.
“Hello,” the tall one called out. “You are here for the Kilis Kebabi?”
It was a little hard to read his lips — English was his second language, and he formed the words differently. And facial hair never made things easier, either. “No,” Manus responded with his half of the bona fides. “For the baklava.”
“Oh, the baklava is also excellent,” the man said with a big smile, his teeth white against the dark skin and mustache. “You are Miller, yes? You have something for us?”
Miller was the pseudo the man had been given. Manus stepped to the left, reached slowly into his pocket, and pulled free a thick envelope. He tossed it underhand and the tall man caught it smoothly. With barely a glance, he passed it to the man on his left, who opened it and started counting. Another good sign. If they’d been intent on killing him, they wouldn’t be focused on the money. Not yet.
Manus reached down and popped the trunk release, took hold of the Berserker, then closed and locked the door. The men’s eyes bulged slightly at the sight of the weapon — over three pounds of black 4140 chrome-moly steel, five inches of razor-sharp cutting edge, and an aggressively curved handle, the kind of axe a Viking or Mongol might have carried to sack a city. The men pulled up short, but no one reached for a weapon.