Jake left the NTSB at the urging of his former Navy boss, now director of the CIA, Scott Bentley. The director had lured Jake and Kaplan from their former government careers and recruited them into the CIA’s Clandestine Service where Jake channeled his anger into every covert black op. With each mission, the pain subsided a little. With each hit, he felt better. He became his own therapist.
He’d seen the CIA shrink — Bentley had insisted he and Kaplan both go to the psychiatrist at Langley. Kaplan’s long-time girlfriend, Annie Bulloch, was killed in Savannah on the same day Beth was shot.
St. Patrick’s Day.
The bloodiest day in Savannah’s modern day history. It was something Jake and Kaplan held in common. It should be a bond between them, but Jake knew it wasn’t.
The loss of Beth changed him, forced his anger to surface — anger he didn’t know he had until his first covert assignment two months after her death. He wasn’t supposed to kill his target, his assignment was to capture him and return to Langley. Something went wrong and he panicked.
His heart raced. Beads of sweat rolled down his face. His anger churned inside him like a volcano ready to erupt. Thoughts of Beth, the Irishman, and death ignited his volatile state of mind. His grip on his semi-automatic tightened as he aimed at his target. Seconds later he felt relief as his victim lay covered in blood. Once again, he’d avenged Beth’s death, a secret he’d kept from Bentley and the CIA shrink.
Along with relief was affirmation. A declaration in his own mind that Laurence O’Rourke, the man who shot Beth, was dead. He was killing O’Rourke over and over. Every time he aimed his pistol, he saw O’Rourke’s face. Every time he squeezed the trigger, O’Rourke died. He recalled the blood spurting from the man’s neck. The man lying on the stone floor in the Friars’ chamber, a red puddle under his neck and head. He watched the man’s face grow ashen, heard gurgling as the man tried to speak, watched the man grow still and die. Once again, he had avenged Beth’s death — then came exhilaration, followed by calmness and tranquility.
A sound on the trail caused Jake to look up. “It’s about time, I was about to leave your ass here.” Jake could barely make out Kaplan’s dark features behind the balaclava. With his dark skin, black hair, and brown eyes, Kaplan’s size, six-one, two hundred-ten pounds, was his only discerning feature from the terrorists in the camp.
Kaplan smiled. “When we get back, I’ll call Bentley. Get the green light for tonight.”
“We should have already taken them out and captured Yasir. We could have squeezed out the location of the other attacks and not risked missing our next target.”
“Provided Yasir knows anything about them.” Kaplan motioned for Jake to take the lead down the trail. “These cells don’t usually share information about each other’s activities. Only the handler knows all the locations…and handlers are more difficult to catch.”
The three-mile hike from the ledge overlooking the terrorist camp to the SAS base was characteristic of the mountainous Australian Outback — rugged. It took them over an hour traversing the rocky terrain to reach the camouflage canopy covering the basketball court sized SAS camp. Australian sentries were concealed in the hills surrounding the camp blocking every access. Their job was to ensure the unit’s presence in the desert remained undetected by the terrorist cell. Even if the cell had access to satellite imagery, which was unlikely, the camp would be virtually undetectable.
Centered under the large canopy was the TEMPEST secure tent. The copper mesh tent contained another copper mesh room inside, which provided extra radio frequency shielding for all the equipment housed within its curtain walls. A tent inside a tent. The radio frequency shielded enclosure was part of the ‘Executive Travel Kit’ as Kaplan had called it. The shielded tent technology eliminated the possibility of electronic eavesdropping by providing a high degree of radio frequency attenuation. Other equipment housed in the tent were receivers from SIGIT Group which were used to monitor everything transmitted or said inside the terrorist camp.
The terrorist cell would be scanning for signals, so the TEMPEST provided extra precaution to prevent being detected. The success of the mission depended on the element of surprise.
Jake followed Kaplan into the small enclosure that housed the Integrated T2C3 Secure Communications Workstation. Its main feature was the secure satellite phone and link terminal allowing for secure voice and data transmission and reception.
Inside the dimly lit room, Jake saw an Australian SIS analyst monitoring the secure data link terminal. The same analyst was always at the terminal. Monitoring the TEMPEST’s level of integrity and analyzing signals received from the terrorist camp was his only job — and he always seemed to be there. The man must never sleep.
Without looking up the analyst said, “Bentley wants you to report in. He is waiting for your call. Said there has been some new development and your mission might be scrubbed.”
CHAPTER 3
Revenge.
Ian Collins had obsessed about it every day for the last six months. First, his reputation as one of the best assassins in the business had been ruined when he failed to deliver on a contract in what was made into a public spectacle by the meddling of one man. Then several days later he was wounded in a shootout at a mansion in Georgia. Now, he could no longer support his lavish lifestyle and was forced to live like a rat in hiding.
His last paying contracts had been lucrative but it had left him a pariah. Without work for six months, his cash reserves had dwindled. He needed work.
Collins sat on a rock atop a hill looking down at the town of Ormos on Ios Island. His sanctuary. His retreat. And the rock — his favorite place for reflection, contemplation, and planning.
The perch offered a beautiful vista of Ormos harbor; a tranquil sheltered waterfront nestled amidst the Greek Islands. He’d seen a postcard photo taken from the very spot he now sat. A cruise ship in the harbor had just dropped anchor. Soon tourists would flood the streets of his small retreat, buying over-priced trinkets from the merchants near the waterfront.
Collins owned a small villa on Ios Island, one he’d paid cash for several years earlier while his cash flow was abundant. Whenever he felt threatened, whenever he got that uneasy feeling Interpol was getting too close, or whenever he just needed a break, this was where he came. Here, he was off the grid.
And off the grid was where he had to stay. His travel would be limited. All expenses paid with cash. No paper trail could be left to follow. Not yet.
Collins, a former Irish Republican Army hit man turned assassin, once had a lucrative business. He was good, maybe the best. During a time when society seemed to adopt an attitude of solving its problems by eliminating them, he was in the business of eliminating people’s problems — and business was good.
Society labeled him a psychopath. He preferred “product of his environment.” He’d grown up with violence. In his younger days in Northern Ireland, it was a way of life.
He hadn’t always been ruthless. He remembered the turning point, now a haunting memory. He was a teenager when an escaped convict came to his hometown of Londonderry. The man beat him, tied him up, and forced him to watch while the man raped a woman, the aunt of Collins’ best friend. He felt helpless and scared but another emotion emerged that day as he watched how powerless the woman was to defend herself. Domination over the weak. The convict was the mighty lion who had stalked his prey, taken what he wanted, and then, satisfied, walked away.
Collins mastered the skills of an assassin. His hits were clean. Executed with precision and accuracy.