American operator, p.33
American Operator, page 33
part #4 of Tier One Series
“Eagle, Falcon One report. Do you have a visual on Rook leaving the tunnel on the other side?” Dempsey asked.
“Negative,” Baldwin said. “All traffic is stopped.”
“What do you want me to do?” Munn asked, braking. “We could go in fast and hot using the left lane, or we could ditch the bike and pursue on foot.”
“If I were him, I’d expect us to pursue into the tunnel on foot,” Dempsey said.
“So what would you do?”
“Depends on EXFIL options and the kinetics inside the tunnel. One of three things: ambush us, turn my bike around and try to blow past us at high speed heading west, or squirt on foot east.”
“Okay, JD. What if you assault on foot, keep him busy while I rocket in fast and try to get past him?” Munn asked over his shoulder, and Dempsey held on for his life. “If I can flank him, then we’ll put him in a cross fire, and eventually one of us will get a clean shot. But if he tries to squirt past us on his bike, then I’ll be ready to run him down.”
“Works for me. Let’s do it.”
Munn braked to a stop for Dempsey to climb off. “Just make sure you keep him pinned down with cover fire so he doesn’t pick me off on my INFIL. How many magazines you got?”
“Four,” Dempsey said, hopping off the BMW and doing a quick check of the pouches on his kit.
“All right,” Munn said, revving the BMW’s engine. “Let’s deep-six this sonuvabitch.”
CHAPTER 48
Darülfünun Tunnel Entrance
As he braked for the traffic jam in the tunnel, Valerian found himself grinning. He should be angry, cursing his bad luck, but instead, he realized that he was enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he’d found himself in a life-or-death situation like this. The American operators in pursuit were the most capable adversaries he’d faced in a very, very long time. For years, his legends had immersed him in the criminal underground, where his assignments had him working with Middle Eastern jihadis, Baltic thugs, and European Mafia. In those realms, his foes were rarely more than petty criminals elevated to their stations by money and brutality, not talent. Arkady had once warned him that the greatest enemy he would face in his profession was himself. Now, in this moment of adrenaline-charged clarity, he finally understood what the old spymaster had meant. Here, now, in this tunnel, he at last recognized his true enemy.
Complacency.
The American operator with the steel nerves, the one who had stared down the barrel of his gun and not flinched, was exactly what Valerian needed—what he craved. A worthy opponent. This man was not some goatherd-turned-terrorist; he was not some dim-witted, muscle-bound street thug with a gun. This man was a professional—a soldier with highly calibrated instincts and skills.
This man is an operator.
He is me.
Valerian moved along the right side of the stalled traffic, weighing his options. He could simply climb aboard one of the many buses idling in the tunnel and disappear in the crowd, or he could stow away in the trailer of one of the two delivery trucks ahead of him. But if they were stalled for a prolonged period, the Americans would be joined by reinforcements. The team would conduct a hard-target search and he would be found.
Besides, where was the challenge in hiding?
No, to win his freedom, Valerian would have to kill both the operator and his teammate as they approached. Then, and only then, could he exit in disguise. He would change more than his outward appearance; he would become someone else. He would adopt a new legend—one of opportunity—and he would slip away.
He ignored the profane shouts and occasional middle fingers as he “skipped the line,” shooting down the narrow gap between the column of traffic and the wall of the tunnel—a gap through which only a motorcycle could fit. As he came upon a twelve-wheel delivery truck, he dismounted, dropped the Piaggio on its side, and then pulled the bike beneath the idling truck. Then he took a knee and checked the magazine of the 9 mm HK, confirming the rounds remaining. His brain had long ago assumed the task of counting his fired rounds without being asked. With the extra magazine in his pocket, he had more than enough to dispatch the Americans, deal with any unanticipated complications, and disappear.
He crept forward and took up a position at the bend in the tunnel—the perfect location to execute an ambush.
CHAPTER 49
Dempsey flashed Munn a lopsided grin over his shoulder as he paused thirty feet outside the tunnel entrance in a tactical crouch. The entry was the most dangerous part of the advance because he had to transition from bright sunlight to darkness inside the tunnel. This refractory period, the time it took his eyes to adjust, was when he would be most vulnerable. If he were Rook, he’d exploit that transition.
He quickly scanned both sides of the tunnel approach, just in case the assassin had doubled back and was trying to flank him. Seeing no one, he crouched lower and drifted along the driver’s side of the row of idling vehicles waiting to enter the tunnel. He could feel multiple pairs of eyes on him, each and every vehicle occupant looking at him with fear and uncertainty as he passed them, fully kitted up and trailing the pistol in his extended right arm. At ten feet to the shadow line, he accelerated rapidly, advancing then ducking behind the back of a minibus—thank God for minibuses—and then he slipped over to the passenger side of the line of traffic.
He popped his head around the rear corner of the vehicle for a scouting glance then pulled it back. The light dichotomy was terrible, and he still couldn’t make out anything beyond the first few meters in the tunnel, but hey, at least he hadn’t been shot. He exhaled, slipped around the bumper, and advanced into the lion’s den. He crossed the shadow line, entered the tunnel, and ducked behind a delivery van. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to accelerate the acclimation process. After a beat, he opened his eyes and turned away from the glaring sunlight outside.
A silent count ticked down in his head: Three, two, one . . .
Body primed with adrenaline, he rounded the right rear corner of the van and advanced, scanning over his Sig. He passed three vehicles. Then four. Then five . . . His heart pounded in his chest. Upon reaching another minibus, he dodged to the left side of the column of traffic to check the inside sight line and make sure he wasn’t being flanked. Not seeing his quarry, he crossed back and stepped around the bumper, leading with his Sig in a tactical crouch. His eyes were fully acclimated now, and this time he saw movement ahead. A crouching figure had just executed the same maneuver in mirror image. They faced each other—two dualists, weapons at the ready—a mere twenty paces apart.
Dempsey fired three rounds—bang, bang, bang. In synchronicity with his last two trigger pulls, a double muzzle flash lit up the tunnel ahead. Two slugs slammed into his vest a heartbeat later, impacting dead center of mass. He felt the double thump, but the kinetic energy of the rounds was largely absorbed by the antiballistic ceramic plate in his carrier. He swallowed down the sharp pain and pulled in a slow, agonizing breath, and then he kept closing—unloading a prolonged, furious volley. Trigger pull, trigger pull, trigger pull, trigger pull . . . Thunder roared and reverberated in the tunnel as he sent a barrage of metal at his target. The enemy shooter dove between two vehicles, but Dempsey kept closing.
Trigger pull.
“INFIL now,” he barked over the comms circuit. “Rook is crouched three cars back from the white delivery van, midtunnel.”
Trigger pull . . . Trigger pull.
The reverb of gunfire was soon drowned out by the high-pitched whine of the BMW motorcycle as Munn screamed into the tunnel down the vacant left lane like an F/A-18 Hornet on afterburner. As Dempsey continued to advance on the shooter’s position, providing cover fire for Munn, thoughts flowed through his head in a live stream-of-consciousness commentary on the tactical scenario.
The way he moves, the way he shoots—this guy’s no terrorist shithead; he’s a fucking pro . . . He’s not cowering behind a car bumper paralyzed with fear . . .
Trigger pull.
He’s active.
He’s aggressive.
Shit, he’s me . . .
Trigger pull . . . trigger pull.
He retrieved a fresh magazine from his kit, ejected the spent magazine from his P226, and slammed the new one home.
You’re about to get shot in the leg, dude, the SEAL in his head suddenly warned.
Dempsey dropped his shooting hand to the deck and squeezed off two rounds parallel to the ground, aimed under the chasses of the idling vehicles. At the same time, two slugs whistled past his feet, missing him by inches. He squeezed off two more rounds along the ground and then sprinted toward the next gap between vehicles.
He’s going to roll out and shoot Munn on the reversal . . . It’s what I’d do.
The squeal of rubber on asphalt echoed in the tunnel; Munn was making his reversing maneuver. Jaw clenched, Dempsey slid between the front bumper of an Opal and the rear bumper of a Mercedes CUV and dropped to a tactical knee. A gunshot rang out.
Damn it.
He was too late.
He sighted around the left rear quarter panel of the Mercedes crossover just in time to glimpse Munn tumbling off the bike thirty meters away. A second gunshot cracked, and the window above Dempsey’s head exploded. He managed to squeeze off a round as a second slug grazed his cheek.
“Shit,” he cursed, jerking behind the hatchback.
He touched the fleshy part of his cheek just below the bone, and the tips of his two gloved fingers came away bloody. The tip of his ear burned, too, which told him the bullet had clipped the outer rim of cartilage on its way past. Rage erupted inside him and he was up, sprinting behind the Mercedes and looping toward the passenger side. He swallowed the rage and reminded himself that anger was no ally. It would cloud his judgment, distract his focus, and get him killed. Dempsey felt his heart slow, and the tremor in his fingers faded. He rounded the vehicle and charged up the narrow lane between the tunnel wall and the line of cars.
A car door opened ahead, and someone began to get out on the passenger side. Dempsey squeezed off a round at the ground, and the exiting moron recoiled and slammed the door shut. Dempsey slowed and fell back into a tactical crouch. He scanned left, looking for the shooter through the windows and windshields of the cars while keeping his head below the rooflines as he advanced.
A flash of gray on the other side of a windshield caught his attention. In that split-second glance, Dempsey thought he made out the shooter running away. Was he squirting or repositioning? Would he try to put another round in Munn on his way past?
That’s what I’d do.
Cursing, Dempsey accelerated and leaped onto the hood of a low-slung convertible. His boots made craters in the sheet metal with reverberating thuds as he gained the high ground. Sighting over the roof of the car in front of him, he saw the assassin sprinting toward the tunnel’s east exit, and just like he’d suspected, the shooter was bringing his weapon to bear on Munn, still lying beside the toppled motorcycle.
“Hey, asshole!” Dempsey shouted as he fired a two-round volley at the killer.
The assassin glanced over his shoulder as at least one of Dempsey’s rounds made contact. The shooter pitched forward, stumbling for two strides before catching his balance. He made to level his pistol at Munn a second time, but Dempsey sent another three rounds flying his way. The shooter’s torso jerked and his pistol tumbled out of his grip, but he stayed on his feet.
Dempsey jumped off the car hood and hit the ground running. He vectored straight toward Munn, who was lying supine on the asphalt, clutching his neck. He shifted his gaze from Munn to the shooter, who was quickly opening the gap between them.
But I shot you . . . twice! the voice growled in Dempsey’s head. Bastard has to be wearing Kevlar; otherwise he’d be down.
“Eagle, this is Falcon One. Do you copy?” Dempsey said over the comms circuit.
No answer came from Baldwin, but he did get a raspy reply from Munn: “Interference from the tunnel.”
As Dempsey took a knee at his friend’s side, he spared a second glance at the fleeing assassin, who was about to exit the tunnel heading east. He looked back at Munn, who was clutching the side of his neck, blood running through his fingers.
“Jesus, Dan,” Dempsey said, his heart skipping a beat. He moved to pull the blowout kit from his vest.
“Save it,” Munn said. “I got this.”
Dempsey cocked a You’re shot in the neck. Are you freaking kidding me? eyebrow at his friend.
“It’s a zone one injury,” Munn said. “Too low to get the carotid artery, and there’s clearly no nerve damage. Dark blood is probably the external jugular vein, which is easy to control.” Dempsey looked at the former surgeon like he was speaking Latin—which he supposed he mostly was. “It looks worse than it is—like your face,” Munn said, locking eyes with Dempsey. “What the hell are you waiting for, JD? Go get that fucker.”
“All right,” he said, popping to his feet. “Hang in there. Help is on its way.”
He jumped over the totaled motorcycle crumpled beside his wounded teammate and sprinted down the tunnel. As he fell into pursuit, he scooped up the shooter’s pistol—an HK 9 mm variant—and stuffed it into his waistband at the small of his back. Something told him he was going to need it later. Sirens wailed behind him. He prayed that an ambulance was en route and not just law enforcement. He also prayed Munn hadn’t been bullshitting him about the wound, but he suspected that this time the doc was playing it straight. Dempsey had seen plenty of severed carotids in his day—hell, he’d been the one who’d done the severing in most cases. If Munn’s wound had been mortal, there would have been more blood—a lot more.
Up ahead, the shooter disappeared from his line of sight as he ran up the ramp leading out of the tunnel. Dempsey squinted, readying himself to have his vision washed out as he crossed from shadow to daylight. A few seconds later, he was out, temporarily blind as he charged up the incline toward street level. A police cruiser sat at the top of the ramp, lights flashing but sirens off.
Wonderful.
The last thing he needed was a run-in with some Turkish traffic cop who decided that today he wanted to put on his big-boy pants and play a game of stop the American operator. Well, today was not the day to fuck with John Dempsey. Today the American operator would not stop until he was standing with his boot pressed against the assassin’s neck—dead or alive, Dempsey didn’t care.
Then, just as he’d feared, a uniformed officer stepped away from the gaggle of people around the traffic accident and walked into the empty westbound lane in front of Dempsey. He held up his palm to Dempsey and barked something in Turkish.
Why do they never try to stop the first guy? It’s always the second guy . . .
Dempsey kept running.
The officer’s gaze flicked to the Sig clutched in Dempsey’s pumping right hand, and his eyes went wide with panic.
Don’t do it, dude . . . Don’t be stupid.
Unfortunately for both of them, stupid won the day.
Flustered, the cop backpedaled, and his hand went to his sidearm.
Dempsey did the math in his head as he accelerated—he had the time to do it right.
The officer’s weapon was coming out of the holster just as Dempsey arrived. Dempsey deftly disarmed the young officer, but the Turk managed to squeeze off a round in the process. The bullet struck the ground between them and ricocheted clear. Dempsey twisted, the officer’s pistol now in his hand, and pointed the muzzle of his Sig at the other man’s chest. The officer’s hands shot skyward in surrender. Dempsey released the magazine from the policeman’s pistol and kicked it clear with his boot as it fell. Then, he pitched the compact Glock 9 mm twenty yards back into the tunnel. The officer stood frozen, staring at him in wide-eyed terror.
“I’m an American operator on a joint counterterrorism task force,” Dempsey said, meeting the officer’s eyes. “Counterterrorism—do you understand?”
The officer nodded.
“Don’t shoot me in the back,” he said and then turned and sprinted up the ramp, praying the officer didn’t have an ankle holster.
“Nicely done, Falcon One” came Baldwin’s voice in his ears, “but it took you long enough.”
“Falcon Two took a bullet in the neck. He claims he’ll live, but he needs a damn CASEVAC. You copy?”
“We hear you Lima Charlie, Falcon,” a new but familiar voice answered—Smith.
“Are you still tracking this bastard?” Dempsey asked, scanning ahead.
“Barely.”
“Which way did he go?”
“North. Turn left ahead on Fuat Pasa. He’s still on foot.”
“How far ahead?”
“Approximately one hundred meters.”
“Shit, there’s no way I’ll catch him,” Dempsey growled, resuming the chase.
“Don’t sell yourself short. Rook appears to be either very tired or wounded,” Baldwin said. “His pace has slowed dramatically over the past minute. You might be able to catch him.”
“Now there’s a backhanded compliment if I’ve ever heard one. I’ve still got three more days until I’m over the hill, remember?”
“Falcon One,” Smith said, his voice deadly serious, “I have a big ask, and you’re not going to like it.”
“What?” Dempsey huffed, heart pounding and lungs heaving.
“I want you to take this guy alive. Amanda Allen has identified him from satellite imagery as Malik 2.0.”
A string of silent curses ran through his mind. Unfortunately, Shane, that isn’t going to happen, he decided, but to Smith he simply said, “Check.”
“The target turned just east on Ismetiye,” Baldwin said.
“That doesn’t . . . fucking . . . help me,” Dempsey huffed between breaths.
“Falcon One, Eagle,” Smith said, his voice calm and confident. “Turn right in ten meters. I’m going to see if I can cut some corners and put you on an intercept course.”
