Assassin's Sons: [#4] A Special Operations Group Thriller Read online

  Filthy and exhausted, Max was relieved when he spotted the same wood and stone barn he and Tom departed from at the beginning of their mission. The barn was located behind a farmhouse that was being used as a CIA safe house south of Gaziantep, Turkey. The bikes were still classified top secret and weren’t meant to be seen by the public, so the barn provided secure storage. Max parked in front of the barn, dismounted, unlocked the massive door, and opened it. Tom drove inside and stopped. Max pushed his bike in and parked it beside Tom’s. Max’s wrists were numb, and his hands had locked up like they still gripped the handlebars.

  “You okay?” Tom asked.

  Max walked out of the barn. His voice filled with sarcasm: “Just peachy.”

  Tom followed, securing the door behind him.

  Max became stern. “Why didn’t you answer me when I radioed you back there in that bed of moon dust?”

  “I was kind of busy,” Tom said, returning the sarcasm.

  “That would’ve been a bad time to get stuck.”

  Tom smiled. “You worried about me.”

  “All I’m saying is that if you ignore me like that again, I’ll leave you.”

  “You won’t leave me.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Now Tom had that shit-eating grin on his face. “Thanks for finding that rock for me. But you looked a bit wobbly—like you needed training wheels.”

  “Shut up.”

  Tom kept at it. “Just saying.”

  Max spit silt, but it still stuck to his gums. “Shut up.”

  Tom chuckled.

  Max approached the back door of the farmhouse, and Willy Madison opened the door. He looked like Willie Nelson in his late forties with his blue jeans, long hair, and bandana. He welcomed them in his Louisiana French accent, “Comment ça va?” How are you?

  It was cold outside, Max was coming down from his adrenaline high, and his thumb throbbed like a banshee. He grunted in reply.

  Tom handed Willy the flash drive. “Ça va bien. Comment ça va?”

  Willy smiled as he took the drive and gestured for them to come inside. “Bien.”

  Max hoped the contents of the flash drive led to Charlotte’s killers and that his dangerous journey hadn’t been for nothing.

  3

  11 Days

  In eleven days, Otto Düster and his identical twin brother Abraham would set sail from Germany to New York, where they would blast Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Inside Sharqi, an unremarkable pub in al-Raqqah, Syria, the twins sat at the table farthest from the entrance. Otto was simply called “Düster,” and his brother was known as “Junior.” Düster was only older by twenty-two minutes, but he led his younger brother as if he was ahead of him by twenty-two years.

  Once when they were little, Junior complained about Düster bossing him around, which turned into a fight in the living room of their little apartment. Düster punched Junior in the face, and Junior punched back. Both of their noses bled, but Düster knocked Junior down with a flurry of punches. As Junior lay on the carpet, Düster continued to hammer his face. Junior would’ve died if their mother hadn’t stepped in and stopped him. She’d been an Iraqi immigrant until she married a German and became a German citizen. When she stopped Junior’s bleeding, Mama shook her finger at the twins. “Look around. Can’t you see that we’ve got nothing? Your father abandoned us. All we’ve got is each other. We’ve got to fight the world to survive, not each other!” Düster loved his mother more than anything, and he didn’t want to disappoint her. He and Junior hung their heads. She calmed down and put her arms around them and said it lovingly this time. “We’ve got to fight the world to survive, not each other. Together, we’re strong. That’s how we get what we want in this world. Fight them, not us.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” they said in unison.

  After that, Düster became less bossy, and Junior settled into his role as Number Two.

  Now Düster and his brother drank beer and watched soccer on an overhead monitor. Smoke from hookahs diffused the light in the bar. Most of the customers likely came here to keep their minds off Syria’s civil war, but Syria wasn’t Düster’s nation, and he loved war. Junior was fond of battle, too.

  In contrast to the casual clothing of the other patrons, the twins wore black Armani suits and silk ties. Ladies often remarked how enrapturing the twins were, but they were fearful of them, more so of Düster than Junior.

  Düster thought about how he appeared to others. He had well-groomed black hair, a small, flat head, small eyes, small nose, and short legs. His long body, broad shoulders, and thick skin gave him the appearance of a honey badger, and he prided himself on his doesn’t-give-a-shit aura. His business was terror, and he wanted to be feared throughout the world—not just in Berlin.

  He fondled the handle of his black cane, which wasn’t necessary for walking. Inside the heavy wooden sheath was a rapier-like sword. “He’s late,” Düster said.

  “So rude,” Junior said.

  At this rate, we won’t get our jihadis and bombs to Hamburg in time to set sail for the US.

  Three men sauntered in. The Moby Dick–sized man was the coyote, and he filled the doorway as he walked through. The next biggest man had a faux Mohawk and a lunatic’s eyes, and Düster didn’t know who he was, but the smallest man was the coyote’s assistant.

  The coyote and his two companions found the twins and greeted them in Arabic: “As-salamu ’alaykum.” Peace be upon you.

  “Wa alaykumu,” Düster and Junior said together. And upon you. What Düster really thought was death be upon you.

  The coyote seated himself at Düster and Junior’s table without asking, and his two men sat with him. “In your message, you said you wanted to meet,” he said. “To what honor do I owe this?”

  Düster faced the man with the lunatic eyes and asked, “Who are you?”

  “I’m the bodyguard,” the man answered. His words were slow, as if he were a bit dim-witted.

  Düster faced the coyote and asked, “Why do you need a bodyguard?”

  “These are dangerous times,” Coyote said smugly.

  “But you’re meeting with us,” Düster said. “We can protect you. You don’t need a bodyguard.”

  Junior spoke up. “We hired you to smuggle twelve jihadis out of Syria. But the jihadis are still in Syria.”

  “Turkish border patrol has become stricter and expenses have risen,” Coyote said.

  “Are you saying more money would help?” Düster asked kindly.

  Coyote paused. “I’m not saying that. But it would help.”

  Düster turned to his brother and calmly said, “He wants more money.”

  Junior smiled, baring his canine teeth. “He wants more money.”

  Düster twisted his cane handle until he felt the locking mechanism inside unlock, disconnecting the sword from the cane. “Let’s give it to him.”

  Düster drew his sword and stood, cane in one hand, sword in the other. Junior did the same.

  Coyote and Lunatic scooted back in their chairs and rose, but Coyote’s assistant froze in his seat. A nearby customer smoking a hookah stopped smoking and coughed loudly.

  Düster closed in on Coyote, and Junior moved in on Lunatic.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Coyote asked indignantly.

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” Düster asked calmly. Then he slashed Coyote across the face to let him know he was serious.

  “Aah!” Coyote shouted.

  Junior grunted and hacked away at Lunatic, enough to kill him several times over.

  Customers let out shrieks and squeals as they cleared out of the bar.

  Düster struck Coyote with the wooden cane, dazing him. Then he dropped the cane to free up his hand, which he used to push Coyote onto the nearest table. Coyote’s head hit an overhead lamp before his head hit the table. His face continued to bleed from the sword slash. His mouth gaped as he cried, “No, no, no!”

  Junior came over and helped hold down Coyo
te. The overhead lamp swung like a pendulum, sweeping Coyote with its light and giving off an electric hum.

  Düster bared his teeth. “You don’t screw with us. Nobody screws with us, you hear? Or we won’t be as friendly as we are tonight.”

  “No, no!” Coyote shouted.

  With a vicious downward thrust, Düster pinned Coyote’s hand to the table with the tip of his sword.

  “Aahgh!” Coyote screamed. Blood from his hand spread slowly across the table and dripped off the side.

  Düster pressed down on the sword harder, and Coyote screamed louder.

  Junior breathed heavily as he strained to keep Coyote secure. “If anyone asks about your hand, tell them how friendly we were.” He paused. “Now say thank you.”

  “Aahhgghh!” Coyote wailed.

  Düster drove the blade as deep into the table as he could and sprayed spit as he shouted, “Say thank you!”

  Coyote cried.

  Düster spoke slower and more calmly in order to penetrate Coyote’s panicked condition. “Say thank you.”

  More blood dripped from the side of the table. Coyote appeared out of his mind with pain. His mumbled words were barely discernible: “Thank you.”

  Düster pulled the sword out of the table and his hand. Coyote whimpered. The lamp continued to buzz in monotone.

  Düster and his brother held their bloody blades down at their sides, stepped away from Coyote, and caught their breath. Düster scanned the bar, mostly cleared out now, for anyone else who wanted to play, but none of the few that remained stepped forward. Cowards, Düster thought. Light reflected off his sword.

  Back at their table Coyote’s assistant sat trembling, eyes closed. Düster homed in on him, and Junior followed. Düster stood in front of the assistant and said, “Open your eyes.”

  The assistant shook his head.

  “Open your eyes!” Junior said.

  “We won’t tell you again,” Düster said firmly.

  Still shaking, the assistant peeked open one eye—then the other.

  Düster pointed his sword at the assistant’s chest and said, “You’re in charge now. Twelve jihadis. Get them to me. In Germany.”

  Something dripped from the assistant’s chair, and the crotch of his pants was wet. “Yes—right away!”

  4

  Max stirred from the haze of sleep to the sound of a familiar voice. He looked around trying to orient himself. Thin rays of sunlight shone around the window shades, but even in the dim light he recognized the room he’d been using at the CIA farmhouse south of Gaziantep, Turkey. The mission debrief had finished several hours earlier, and he’d crashed to catch some much-needed rest.

  His thumb still hurt, but the feeling in his wrist had returned, and he could flex his hands once more. He rubbed his eyes. Although he’d showered after the mission, moon dust still oozed out of the corners of his eyes. He sat up in bed to find a familiar figure standing in the doorway. “Dad!”

  Hank Wayne had been a Force Recon Marine before he left to join CIA full-time. He was the same height as Max but had broader shoulders and was heavier without being overweight. His mouth smiled under his bushy moustache that was still as black as his hair, and he gave Max a hug. No matter Hank’s mood, his voice was gruff around the edges: “Max. Willy told me you boys pulled it off.”

  Max threw off the covers and pulled on a pair of pants. His thumb wasn’t broken, but it had swollen, and he was careful not to aggravate it further.

  “I’m happy you two are safe,” Hank said. “Come on, your brother’s already up.”

  Hank left the room, and Max followed him.

  In the living room Tom was relaxed on the sofa and said, “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

  Max grumbled before he plunked down on the sofa, too.

  Hank handed both of them cigars. “To celebrate.”

  Max took one, but Tom declined.

  Hank lit Max’s cigar. “Happy to see you both made it back safely.”

  Max took a puff. “What brings you out here?”

  “I know you might have a lead on the men who killed Tommy’s girlfriend.” Hank sucked on his cigar.

  “You came all the way to Turkey for me?” Tom asked suspiciously.

  Hank exhaled cigar smoke. “The identity of your mother’s killer could be on that flash drive you brought in.”

  Max looked at his brother in astonishment, who looked at him the same way.

  Tom eyes went hard, and he turned to Hank. “That’s a monumental revelation.”

  Max focused like a laser on his father and asked, “What makes you think that?”

  Hank gave a mischievous grin. “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

  “You won’t kill us,” Tom said.

  “I brought you into this world, and I can damn sure take you out,” Hank said.

  “You’re not telling us because you did something illegal, right?” Max asked.

  Hank plopped down in a stuffed chair. “Well, if I had done something illegal, telling you two would make you both accessories, wouldn’t it?”

  “Is the source so classified that you can’t tell us?” Tom asked. In CIA’s Special Operations Group, it was common to be involved in operations that couldn’t be discussed with fellow CIA buddies—or even close family members—even if those close family members were CIA, too.

  “Stop fishing,” Hank said patiently. “Both of you.”

  “Well, it’s good you’re not in rehabilitation anymore,” Tom said. When a CIA op had gone sideways several months ago, Chinese spies captured Hank. Max and Tom raced across the world to rescue him. The rescue was a success, but Hank was seriously wounded and had to sit out while Max and Tom stopped attacks against the United States that could have led to World War III.

  Max smoked his cigar. “And rightful that the Agency gave you light duty until you could recover.”

  “I’m off the light duty,” Hank said cheerfully. “I’m here to help.”

  “Help?” Tom asked. “Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

  Hank winked at him. “You know me, Tommy. I’m invincible.” He blew smoke long and hard before he lowered his cigar, and his voice became heavier. “I want to help you find Charlotte’s killer or killers. And I have to find your mother’s killer, too.”

  Willy entered the room carrying plastic bags full of what smelled like breakfast. “It ain’t fried chicken, but it’ll have to do.” He opened the bags and handed out plastic containers of food.

  “Already ate, brother, thanks,” Hank said. Although Hank and Willy weren’t blood brothers, they’d been brothers in arms since their days in the Corps. After joining the Agency, they became even closer.

  Max ate a bite of spicy sausage that danced a whirling dervish in his mouth. “Is this Turkish?”

  “It’s called sujuk,” Willy said in his uncle tone.

  Tom chowed down on fried eggs mixed with sautéed onions, green peppers, tomatoes, and olives. “This is great.”

  “That’s menemen,” Hank said.

  Max devoured a few bread rings covered with sesame seeds before Tom could eat them all.

  Hank looked on proudly.

  “While you boys continue to stuff your faces,” Willy said, “I’ll talk business.”

  Max’s mouth was too full of food to respond, so he mumbled approvingly.

  Willy continued, “The job we’re working now is under Omega, which has gone by several names in the past—Phoenix Program, F-6, and so on. Now Omega is tasked with dismantling the infrastructure of ISIL and other terrorist groups. Kill or capture the leaders. Interrogate any leaders we capture to find out who their leaders are. And keep working up the food chain until the terrorists’ infrastructure breaks down. I don’t think anyone can ever wipe all the evil off the face of the earth, but we can render some of them ineffective for a season. Make it difficult for them to regroup.

  “Omega is tasking us with Operation Desert Omen. You’ve already completed phase one of that operation—obtain t
he identities of the Ringvereine leaders responsible for the Georgetown bombing. Our techs are busy retrieving encoded data from the flash drive. Now we enter phase two: kill or capture the ISIL commander in charge of Ringvereine. Several sources have confirmed that the commander’s name is Achmed al-Iraqi.” Willy picked up a remote control, aimed it at the TV and entertainment console, and pushed a button. The TV power came on. He tapped the remote again and a small projector came alive and displayed a photo of an Arab man on the TV monitor.

  Max studied the photo closely to see if he might be the man who’d killed Maman. He always used the French word when referring to his mother, who was French, born in Paris. Way back then, Hank shot at her killer while Max and Tom, ages six and two, stood nearby. One of Hank’s bullets had grazed the shooter’s face before he escaped. But the man in this photo had no visible scar. Max was disappointed.

  Max looked at Tom. Maybe this al-Iraqi was one of the two men Tom had spotted after the bombing that killed Charlotte.

  Tom seemed disappointed, too. He shook his head.

  Max thought, Maybe al-Iraqi has information that will lead to Maman’s and Charlotte’s murderers. Taking out leaders was hardly insignificant, but Max wanted to take out the men directly responsible.

  Willy continued. “Commander al-Iraqi is a former major in the Iraqi Army. In the Iraq War, the US defeated his army and didn’t invite him back, so he joined a Sunni insurgency. Then we wiped out most of his insurgency. After that, al-Iraqi fled north to join fellow Sunnis to overthrow the government in Syria.”

  The Sunnis and Shiites were constantly at war with each other. Most of the Sunnis lived outside of Iran, and most of the Shiites lived in Iran. Iraq and Syria were a little different. In Iraq, the majority of the population was Shiite, but Sunnis ruled. In Syria, the majority of the population was Sunni, but Shiites ruled. After Iraq’s Sunni leader, Saddam Hussein, was toppled from power, the Shiites got their revenge and stepped all over the Sunnis to control Iraq. Sunni military leaders like al-Iraqi lost their jobs and looked to employ themselves by toppling Shiite al-Assad in Syria. Daesh, the pejorative name for the terrorist group that came to call itself Islamic State of Iraq, more commonly known as ISIL, actively recruited men like Commander al-Iraqi.