The American Agent (An American Agent Novel Book 1) Page 3

  Alex positioned himself twenty yards from the old structure where a tarped object protruded from the ground. Kneeling behind it for cover, he surveyed the guard activity once again. The three men continued to pace in front of the block building, using it for an outpost.

  As he started to resume course, he bumped into the object behind him. The tarp ruffled, the sound carrying in the light breeze. He knelt stock-still, cringing, but the guards continued as before, seemingly unaware of his presence.

  He waited, and when it finally appeared the sound had went unnoticed, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  But before he darted away, a nagging curiosity got the best of him. Alex raised the thick covering to reveal an old Soviet Mig. A fighter jet. His thoughts circled around the purpose of the plane, but the urgency of the mission beckoned him to keep on the move. With that initiative, he lowered the tarp and sprinted north, past the airfield toward his objective.

  He hoped there wouldn't be any more surprises along the way.

  Using the night vision apparatus again, Alex stormed into the night, the guards and the airfield slinking further behind him—but somehow—he suspected the combatants and the Mig would come into play again before his two hour mission expired.

  7

  The landscape turned rugged under Alex's boots the closer he drew to the target destination. A mile past the airstrip he paused, raised the night vision goggles up on his forehead, and took a bearing on the North Star. Based on the map he studied on the flight in, he chose to tack in a northeasterly direction, which put him on course for the hillside east of the camp.

  The earth grew steeper with each step, littered with rocks and scant vegetation appearing various shades of green in the night vision apparatus. Mountains loomed in the distance, the summits crooked and jagged, slashing across the starlit sky.

  A mile and a half later, and two hundred yards from the hostile encampment, Alex positioned himself behind a cluster of boulders. One rock, about knee high, he selected as a firing platform.

  He checked his watch. It took fifty-seven minutes to reach his current location. The timer ticked away one digit at a time: one hour, two minutes, thirty-four seconds, and counting...until extraction.

  As Washington warned, a hundred or more men were engaged in various activities. Some patrolled the outer perimeter with machine guns, others worked under truck hoods with flashlights, and a few sat around fires chatting. Likely others were in tents, asleep. Alex nestled the barrel of the launch-able eavesdropping device between the crevice of two rocks. He took aim with the suppressed mechanism, accounting for a light wind from the northwest, and squeezed the trigger. A cylinder with a harpoon-like nose arced through the air and penetrated the arid terrain within ninety yards of the camp.

  He sighted the impact zone with the scope of his rifle in night vision. Imbedded in the ground, the exterior sides of the cylinder opened and rose skyward, the mesh-metal plates connecting to form a small disk. Next, a tiny antenna extended from the core as he donned a headset. Fluent in Arabic, as well as a few regional dialects, he listened and waited for any conversation that might identify Kasim Raziz.

  Hearing only static to begin with, he removed a black remote from a pants pocket, extended the antenna, and nudged a joystick until the reception cleared.

  At the campsite, four guards in desert attire—armed with what looked like AK-47's—gathered around a wooden crate and started playing cards under the light of a lantern. Audible through the headset, they laughed and bantered in Arabic. The atmosphere seemed low key until another guard with a rifle strung over his shoulder approached the men who were sitting crossed legged on the ground. The light hearted chatter ended abruptly.

  The guard snapped an order and the group dispersed with their weapons to various points around the camp.

  Then a tall figure emerged from one of the tents.

  Alex trained the crosshairs on this new individual. The longer he observed, the more he noticed the man vaguely resembled the mugshot in the photograph he memorized. The heat of the desert night closed in around Alex, or was it the intensity of the moment? The truth, there wasn't enough light to get a clear visual, and the night vision did little to clarify the image in the scope.

  The two men conversed, and as they talked, the audio broke up at unpredictable intervals.

  "When...stssh...bomb...stssh...eady?" the sentry asked the tall figure.

  "Soon," the man replied, the bomb talk peaking Alex's interest.

  The guard added, "Our...stssh...eard...stssh...stssh."

  Heard what? Alex adjusted the remote a touch more to no avail.

  "Radio...stssh...airfield...stssh."

  So the men at the airstrip did hear the helicopter and reported it to base camp. Here, he had a subordinate discussing tactics with someone in command. This person of interest fit the description of Kasim Raziz, but there was no way to be sure.

  The taller man spoke once again, but his words were filled with static and scattered in Alex's ears.

  "Yes...Kas...stssh...m."

  What did he say?

  The guard was clearly addressing his superior by name. Alex tapped the headset. He continued to listen but the conversation was over. Based on the fragmented words, he pieced together one important conclusion with his brain filling in the gaps...the soldiers of The Crescent Moon had heard the chopper. And then there was the talk of a bomb? It could be anything? An IED intended for a military convoy? A vest rigged for a suicide bomber? Alex had no way to verify.

  The guard spun on his heel and marched westward, toward the edge of the camp.

  Alex spied through the rifle scope in night vision green. The man neared a transport truck, an old troop vehicle with a canopy over the bed.

  Alex eyed his watch. Thirty-five minutes to spare.

  A sense of urgency drew his aim back to the person of interest. The tall figure was now talking to another guard. The content of their conversation seemed less tense, more on the friendly side. Someone he kept in close confidence.

  Alex centered the crosshairs on the leader's face, revealing a faint outline of a mustache. The facial hair alone couldn't identify Raziz, but Alex still wondered if the previous guard had called him by name a few moments ago? He placed a finger over the trigger, exhaled a calm breath, applying the slightest hint of pressure.

  He had to make a decision. The man standing before him possessed all the traits: the correct height, the physical stature, a thick head of hair, a thin mustache...and most importantly, he emanated confidence and authority, like someone in charge. And again, had the guard addressed this potential leader by name?

  As Alex ticked off the attributes in his mind one at a time, the percentages started to add up...sixty...seventy...eighty...ninety...ninety-nine percent...

  At that exact moment, the man Alex suspected to be Kasim Raziz stared straight at him through the rifle scope. The man's face crystallized, and in an instant, the final tenth of a percent bolstered his certainty to near absolute.

  And he pulled the trigger.

  8

  Swoop. The bullet spat from the end of the suppressed muzzle, ripping through the desert air with lethal precision, traveling the distance from the sniper rifle to its target in a fraction of a second.

  Alex had no qualms about killing the leader of a terrorist organization. Certainly, another Raziz would spring up in his place and rally the group around the cause of martyrdom, but in the interim, chaos reigned as plots were delayed and precious time gained.

  The bullet burst through the man's forehead, brain matter erupting from a shattered skull as his body rocketed backwards from the high velocity impact. The terrorist who Alex identified as Kasim Abdul Raziz struck the ground at the base of his tent.

  The hostiles closest to Raziz burst into panic.

  Angry shouts in Arabic ensued as weapons raised and erratic return fire ratta-tatt-tatted from the end of multiple AK-47's. In the midst of the confusion, Alex sprinted toward the west side of the
camp in the direction of the transport vehicle, covering the length of two football fields in less than sixty seconds. The disorder provided the perfect cover to see if a bomb of some kind was in the bed of the truck.

  Alex ducked behind a tent, winded. After catching his breath from the long run, he darted toward another temporary shelter, then raced for the rear of the transport...and yanked back the thick curtain.

  It was empty.

  Maybe they'd already moved the bomb, if there was one?

  As Alex eased away, a shot blasted from nearby, the bullet zipping past his head. His heart thumped in his chest and a heightened sense of self-preservation drove him into action. With no time to draw his service pistol, he fled around the far side of the truck.

  He used the transport truck for cover and dove for the dark recesses of a ditch. Crawling on his hands and knees, head held low, he happened to glance up and see a jeep thirty yards away. The military vehicle appeared rundown and ancient, likely having served in a war a half century ago.

  Panting—adrenaline surging through his system—Alex scrambled to his feet and stormed for the dilapidated jeep. As he ran, machine gun fire chewed up loose dirt behind him, honing in on his fleeing figure—round after round whipping by so close the hot wind from the bullets blazed by his face.

  Alex slid across the front seat of the jeep and somehow stopped before shooting out the other side.

  Behind the wheel, he kept low and hunched over the ignition switch.

  No keys. Wouldn't expect it any other way.

  He drew his knife, jammed the tip of the blade into the steering column and popped open the casing. With trembling fingers and rapid breaths, he located the ignition wires and twisted them together.

  Come on, come on, come on.

  The jeep sputtered...once...twice...then rumbled to life.

  Yes.

  Alex forced the gear shifter into first and stomped on the gas pedal, sending the four-wheel-drive lurching forward, accelerating, bouncing over the uneven terrain.

  A quick peek behind him revealed hostiles loading into another jeep.

  He glanced at his watch. It showed twenty-two minutes till extraction…and now he had enemy combatants on his tail.

  Alex gunned the engine, revving the speedometer up to sixty miles an hour. The jeep left the ground over a low rise and crashed down with a jarring thud.

  Another check on his six.

  He held a slim margin that shrank and shrank as lead rained down around him...but after rumbling over one bump after another, finally…in the distance the airfield came into view.

  As he sped toward the landing strip, automatic fire peppered the front of the jeep, raking across the windshield—the glass exploding—and showering Alex with fragmented shards.

  He jerked the wheel to the left and to the right, zig-zagging in a full-speed slalom. He continued the counter-action until he was close enough to discern the outline of the block building next to the runway...and the bulky object draped in a tarp...the Mig jet.

  Alex cut the wheel sharp to the right and a direct path to the jet.

  With the new target in sight, he backed off the gas, allowing the vehicle to decelerate. The timing had to be perfect. Wait. Not yet. Almost there. Then he leapt from the jeep and rolled, his body bouncing up and down, protecting his head and face with his hands and elbows. He continued to tumble until he finally came to a bone-jarring stop.

  Littered with cuts and bruises, Alex looked up in time to see the jeep smash into the side of the Soviet plane. He expected a thunderous explosion, but at first, nothing happened...until jet fuel trickled from the ruptured tank and caught a spark from the exposed ignition wires.

  A brilliant fireball of flames and superheated air mushroomed into the sky, illuminating the building and the area nearby. But in the dark crevices of a dried out gulley, Alex remained prostrate on the ground, waiting for the right moment to make his escape.

  The glaring explosion rose high in the air, drawing the enemy forces from all around.

  Alex saw his chance and took it, hustling off with a hobbled gait, his knees and elbows giving him fits after taking the brunt of his tumble from the jeep.

  He crested the last hill with thirty seconds to spare...as the Black Hawk neared the extraction zone. He watched as the bird slowed and hovered. As soon as he climbed aboard, the chopper pulled up and roared away into the night.

  Out of breath and soaked with sweat, Alex put on the headset and waited for Washington's shiny forehead to appear on the flat screen display.

  He didn't have to wait long.

  9

  ELEUTHERA ISLAND, the BAHAMAS

  One of Alex’s scabbed and bruised legs stuck out from a set of silky sheets, soft rays of the morning sun filtering through the slits in the plantation blinds of his bedroom window. He'd flown in late the night before and had yet to get the proper of amount of sleep his body needed to recuperate. A ceiling fan churned overhead, producing a relaxing hum, interrupted by an annoying buzz which floated through the air into his ear.

  The buzz-buzz persisted while his slumbered mind worked to decipher the racket.

  Alex cast a bleary eyed glance around the room.

  At first, he supposed the intrusion to be a dream, but he soon pinpointed the sound coming from his blue jeans laying in a chair next to the closet. With an irritated groan, he surrendered his head to the pillow again only to pry himself from the bed a moment later.

  He grumbled a complaint on the way over to the chair, and with an exhausted sigh, swiped the pants aside, and snatched up the laptop. The Mac, using FaceTime, opened with the touch of a finger on the smudge resistant screen.

  Washington greeted him with a sarcastic smile. "Good morning, Sunshine."

  "Chief." Alex sat back on the edge of the bed, his pursed lips doing little to hide his lack of enthusiasm.

  "Just waking up, huh?"

  "You're very perceptive." Alex looked at his reflection in the dresser mirror. His hair was mashed flat on one side, the rest tousled in a myriad of directions.

  "We have a lot to go over, so I'd prefer you alert for the debriefing. Go have some breakfast, and don't forget the caffeine."

  "Will do."

  "I'll ring you at 0900, an hour from now. Is that okay by you? Good." The transmission ended.

  Alex stared at the blank screen. "Sure thing."

  He closed the laptop and carried it to the kitchen with him, passing by French doors with an unimpeded view of the Atlantic Ocean and gentle waves rolling up on white sand.

  His house rested on four acres, two deep and two wide, situated along a secluded strip of beaches on the Eleuthera Island in the Bahamas. He remembered scribbling out his list of requests on a sheet of notebook paper in Washington's office and then tearing the page out and sliding it across his desk. His new boss whistled cutely at Alex's demands, highlighted with bullet points, not numbers to indicate no particular order of preference.

  The three thousand square foot house had a tan stucco finish, the front facing inland with an open field and a scattering of scraggly mango trees in the distance.

  A narrow dirt road paralleled the coastline, connecting to a well-used highway that led into a densely packed town populated by locals, consisting of shops, fruit stands, a fish market, and a restaurant or two. Beyond that a new resort took up the north end of the island. Of course, the fact that the supposedly dead Alex Parker lived anywhere was classified as top secret.

  Alex managed to down two cups of coffee and a mixed bowl of fresh bananas, mangos, and strawberries before Washington FaceTimed him again. He nestled into a leather chair and placed the laptop on a desk crafted from the timbers of an old lifeguard watchtower.

  Washington stole a sip from a steaming cup of black coffee. "We know Raziz is dead. Intelligence confirmed that much."

  Alex rehashed the events of the assassination, as well as the talk of a bomb. "They had a Soviet Mig, key word had, I took care of that personally."

&
nbsp; "I'm aware of the bomb reference, and the fighter jet. Nice work with the Mig, by the way, I didn't see that coming." Washington handled a piece of paper, a grim look etching across his face. "One thing you weren't aware of...the eavesdropping device was fitted with a wireless satellite uplink."

  "Like my laptop?"

  "Sort of. Listen, we downloaded everything you heard and then some. We were able to decipher parts of the conversation between Kasim Raziz and the guard. And once you escaped, his younger brother, Hakem al Mushaf Raziz, gave an interesting pep talk to his new rag tag group of followers."

  A replacement leader sprang up faster than a patch of weeds.

  "We couldn't make out everything Hakem Raziz said, but what we did hear...well, let's just say he doesn't think too fondly of the United States."

  "What else did you uncover?"

  "Aforementioned, Hakem Raziz has assumed command of his brother's operation. We confirmed that he did indeed make a reference to a bomb, what kind, we don't know. But we did obtain one other lead."

  Alex leaned back in the chair, his demeanor growing tense, hanging on Washington's words.

  "Hakem mentioned a name...Coraco, likely the person funding his brand of terror. We can't be absolutely sure, but we think he may have been referring to Alfred Coraco, a wealthy art and treasure collector, and real estate tycoon from Madrid, Spain."

  "Sounds like a busy man." Alex rubbed his bristled chin, pondering a trip overseas. "Never been to Madrid."

  "You're not going there.”

  Alex frowned and furrowed his brow.

  “Actually, Coraco now lives in Marbella, Spain. We've arranged your flight to the city of Malaga. There you'll take a rental to Marbella, where you'll be staging from. We've set you up in a safe house there. I believe you'll admire the view overlooking the Mediterranean. Once you've arrived, wait for your contact. He'll meet you at the safe house."

  "Is he the mysterious fourth person?"