The explosion spread a wave of shrapnel around him, but Justin’s position was secure. Bits and pieces of metal pinged against the back and the far side of the truck. Shouts and curses came in Arabic and another language, which Justin did not understand.

  He waited for another moment, then lay on the road and looked through the rifle’s scope.

  Initially, there was no movement. Then, two sets of legs appeared through the thinning smoke.

  Justin tapped the rifle’s trigger and fired two three-round bursts. His bullets cut the gunmen down. One of them attempted to return fire, but Carrie or someone else from Justin’s team opened up. The gunman’s body turned limp.

  “Reloading,” Justin said to Carrie.

  She stood up and provided suppressive fire while Justin slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle. He peered around the back of the truck, and, since it was clear, dashed toward the white SUV. All its doors were open, and two bodies were face down on the road. A third one was sprawled farther to the left and close to the hillside.

  Justin fired a couple of rounds into all of them, then moved to the next vehicle, a tan Toyota Land Cruiser. Like in the case of the other SUV, the doors were ajar. A man was lying on his back near the back of the Toyota. He was bleeding badly from a wound on his right leg, above his knee, but he was still attempting to reach a rifle that had fallen about three feet away.

  The man was their target, Doma.

  “Stop, don’t do it,” Justin shouted in Arabic. Then he whispered into his mic, “Got eyes on the target. Still alive.”

  “I’ve got your back,” Carrie said.

  The jihadi leader’s hand froze in mid-air. He slowly rolled onto his back and stretched his arms away from his body. “Don’t shoot. I ... I’m just trying to defend myself.”

  Justin’s eyes went to a dead man slumped against the Toyota. His neck was twisted to the side, but Justin recognized the man. One of the most wanted butchers of the Islamic State, who had recently escaped a drone assassination attempt. “By surrounding yourself with murderous terrorists?” Justin tipped his head toward the Toyota.

  Doma followed Justin’s eyes. “I ... I have no idea who he was and—”

  “Shut up. A man of your position does know, must know about the company he keeps.” He pointed his weapon at Doma’s head.

  “No, don’t, don’t kill me. I ... I can be of value.”

  “What value?”

  “You said it yourself. I’m a man of position, top leader, soon to be president. I know ... will know things. I can be useful,” Doma rattled off his words.

  Justin lowered his rifle an inch, aligning it with Doma’s chest. “You want to be recruited as a spy?”

  Doma swallowed hard but did not reply.

  Justin said, “You’re wasting my time.” He trained his rifle on Doma’s head.

  “No, no, wait. I’ll ... I’ll do it, I’ll do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “I’ll report, gather information, give you information. Look ... I ... I will do it.”

  “Do whatever you’re asked? Provide intel? No questions asked?”

  “Yes, yes, yes, everything.”

  Justin gave Doma a sideways glance and studied the man’s face. Fear was clear in his eyes, but there was something else there: a sliver of hope and a glint of truth. Justin recognized it when he saw it. Still, it was not enough to let Doma live.

  Gunfire came from the rear of the convoy, but no bullets whizzed overhead. The fighter jet attack had happened just as the convoy was winding around a wide turn. The gunmen who were still alive and putting up a fight did not have a clear line of sight to Justin or Doma.

  “I will be your spy, your eyes in Libya, in the government. Just let me live.”

  Justin pulled the rucksack from his back and took out his cellphone. It was enclosed in a rugged metal case. He keyed in his password to unlock the phone, then tapped the camera icon. He pointed the phone at Doma and began the recording. “Identify yourself.”

  “Huh? What?”

  “Go on. State your name, who you are, and what you are doing here.”

  Doma hesitated for a moment. “No, not on camera.”

  “Then you’re a dead man.” Justin brought up his rifle.

  “No, wait, I—”

  A short burst erupted from behind him.

  What was that? he thought.

  Justin swung his body around as a bullet struck him in the left thigh.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Thirty miles north of Ghourian, Afghanistan

  Ten miles east of the Iran-Afghanistan border

  The bullet tore through Justin’s flesh. The impact knocked him to the ground. As he collapsed to his side, he was able to unload the rest of his magazine into the chest and head of the shooter. He was the one Justin had seen sprawled farther back to the left and close to the hillside. He had been either wounded or playing dead. This time, there was no doubt in Justin’s mind that the gunman was dead. Blood was oozing from at least two head wounds.

  “Justin, Justin, how are you?” Carrie fell onto her knees next to him.

  “Oh, I ... I’ll be all right.” He glanced at the blood-soaked leg just as Carrie pressed the wound with one hand.

  “Patton, Reza, I need you down here. Justin’s shot.”

  “Copy that. I’ve got eyes on Doma,” Patton said.

  “And I’ve got you covered,” Reza’s voice filled Justin’s earpiece.

  He lifted himself onto one elbow and pulled a Beretta pistol from his ankle holster. He pointed it at Doma and shouted, “Don’t move.”

  The Libyan raised his hands and remained seated with his back against the Toyota. “How are you doing?”

  “Great, thanks for your concern. Now, we have unfinished business...” He glanced around for his phone, which had fallen from his hands when he was shot.

  “Justin, not now. We’ve got to get you treated and leave—”

  He shook his head as he felt the metallic taste of blood at the back of his throat. He tried to move his body, but excruciating pain shot through his leg. He cursed out loud, then bit his lip. He had lost control of his left leg, and now his entire lower abdomen felt like it was on fire. “Eh, yes, but get his words on video. Record Doma agreeing to spy for us. Then ... then, we’ll let him go.”

  “What?” Patton shouted so loud Justin thought his eardrum had burst. “That’s not why we came here.”

  Justin drew in a series of shallow breaths. He spat out blood, then said, “I know why we came. But he’s more valuable to us alive, inside the Libyan government. Even if he’s not elected president, he’s still a powerful figure we can leverage.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Good, I heard your disagreement. Now, follow the order.” Justin glanced at Carrie. “I can’t find my phone.”

  “It’s right here.” She picked it up where it had landed, a couple of feet away from his injured leg. “The screen has cracked.”

  “Does it still work?”

  “It does.”

  “All right. Get him on video and let’s go.”

  Carrie gave him a thoughtful glance. “Justin, are you sure about this?”

  “Yes. Look, killing him is easy. A bullet to the head. But ... what’s next? Someone else will take his place. Or two, or more. If we spare his life and he works for us, we can control the direction of the new government.”

  “A big if.”

  “Right.” Justin winced as another jolt of pain sent shivers through his body. He turned his head slightly to Doma. “We found you once. If you lie to me, to us, we’ll find you again. At that time, nothing you say will save you.”

  Doma’s face had turned the color of ash. He nodded slowly, but said nothing.

  Justin said, “Good. Carrie, go ahead.”

  She gave him an uncertain nod, then stepped closer to Doma. “Look up, yes, this way. No, no, look at me. Right, at the camera. Now, state your name, who you are, and what you’re agreeing to do.”

  Justin sighed as Doma began to talk. The Canadian agent was lying on his back as the pain began to intensify. He felt weak, and the pistol grew heavier in his hand. He felt the hand shake, the barrel of the gun clanging against the dusty road.

  A silhouette appeared about fifty yards away. Before Justin could raise his pistol, Reza’s voice said, “I’ve sent Zurvan with a first aid kit. He has been trained as a medic.”

  “Thanks, Reza.”

  “You’ll be fine, Justin.”

  “I will. A shattered femur never killed anyone.”

  “That’s what it is?”

  “If feels like it. I can barely move.”

  “I’m coming down to give you a hand.”

  “No, stay in position. Carrie and Zurvan are enough to get me back to the SUV.”

  “Okay, I’ll bring it as close as we can.”

  “Good.”

  “Now, about leaving Doma alive—”

  “Reza, I’ve made my decision.”

  “Right, and I’m not trying to change your mind. Just want to remind you that all the intel you receive will need to be shared with my government as well.”

  “You don’t miss a beat, do you?”

  “Just want to make it clear, so we’re both on the same page, as you say.”

  Justin nodded and let out a groan. A sharp pain zipped through his chest, and he felt his heart pumping faster. He was losing a lot of blood. His left hand was pressing on the wound, but he could feel the warm liquid trickling through his fingers. “You’ve got it. We’ll share all intel we secure from Doma. Now, where’s Zurvan?”

  “He’s coming. Should be there at any time.”

  “I’m right here,” a high-pitched voice almost pierced his ear.

  Justin looked at the Iranian operative appearing over the hillside. He nodded, then glanced at Carrie. “You done?”

  “Almost. Taking a few pictures as well. Evidence.”

  “Good call.”

  In a matter of seconds, she put the phone away and returned to Justin. The medic arrived, and he and Carrie began to work on Justin’s wound.

  He was lying there, wondering if he had made the correct choice in letting Doma live. So many have died today already...

  A loud explosion came from behind him, interrupting his thoughts. It rocked the hillside and a curtain of dust began to spread toward them. ...And so many more might still die.

  “Folks, you need to get out of there,” Patton said without hiding the alarm in his tone. “Talis moving forward. We can’t stop them all.”

  “You done?” Justin asked Carrie.

  “We need more time, but we’ll finish you in the car.”

  He glanced to the right side. One of the tan-colored Nissan SUVs was zooming toward them.

  Justin tried to sit up.

  “Hey, hey, where are you going?” Carrie said. “Stay there. We’ll pick you up.”

  Justin rested his head on the ground, feeling the strength leaving his body. The pain had begun to spread from his thigh to the rest of his body. Come on, Reza. Let’s get out of here.

  When the Nissan was parked by his feet, the strong hands of Carrie, Zurvan, and Reza lifted him up and placed him in the backseat. They collected all their gear and weapons, then Reza hit the gas pedal.

  Justin did not breathe easier until every member of the team was in their SUVs, and they had left the battlefield behind. At the five-mile point from the scene, he rested his battered body against the soft fabric of the backseat. He closed his eyes, hoping for the painkillers to dull his senses now that everything was over.

  Epilogue

  Two weeks later

  ECS Headquarters

  Vienna, Austria

  Justin thought he would have become used to the metal crutches by now. They were unwieldy, especially when getting in and out of cars, in narrow halls, or in elevators, like the one he and Carrie were now taking. He found himself acting so clumsily that the physiotherapist had joked about whether he was really a CIS operative. “If you handle a rifle the way you handle the crutches, you’re in big trouble,” she had said with arched eyebrows. Justin had countered by asking her to hand him a rifle, and he would show her.

  Today was the first time he was coming to the office, although he had left the hospital three days ago. The bullet had fractured, not shattered, the femoral shaft and had missed all the main arteries and veins. It had cut through the biceps femoris, the thigh’s outermost muscle. Movements were still very painful, especially after a long period of time on his feet and always at the end of the day. He could still only climb up three stairs before stopping as a result of the agonizing pain. According to the best-case scenario, recovery would take between four and eight weeks.

  Carrie smiled at him as the ping announced the elevator’s arrival at their floor. The door opened slowly, and she stepped out. Justin hobbled his way behind her, the rubber tips of the crutches pegging along the hardwood floor. He wished his boss’s office was closer as he tried to hide his winces.

  When they reached the oval waiting area outside Flavio’s office, Carrie said, “Do you want to sit for a moment?” She pointed at the cream-colored armchairs.

  Justin shook his head and loosened the knot of his black tie. “I just need a moment to catch my breath.”

  “Sure, take your time. It’s still ten to eight.”

  “Better early than late.”

  “Right.”

  When Justin was ready, Carrie knocked on the dark wood door.

  “It’s open, come in, come in,” Flavio’s strong voice rang out with his pronounced Italian accent.

  Carrie gestured with her hand for Justin to walk in front of her, but he shook his head. “Beauty and speed before age and clumsiness.”

  “This is only temporary. You’ll be running in no time.”

  Justin nodded, but his face showed no conviction.

  He struggled to close the door with his elbow. Flavio’s small corner office was about ten by ten and no bigger than the other offices in the headquarters, a nineteenth-century gray-brick building on Landstrasse, a short walk from Vienna’s diplomatic quarter. The building had been renovated and upgraded to the necessary safety and security standards required by the CIS. But the original blueprint had been kept, along with most of the building’s baroque façade, gabled roof, and arched windows.

  “Justin, how are you doing?” Flavio walked over and gave him a tight embrace. “It’s good to see you somewhere else than in a hospital bed.”

  Justin nodded. “I’m glad to be back, sir.”

  “Well, let’s sit down, so you can rest.” He gestured at three chairs set across from his small and meticulously clean dark mahogany desk. A stack of manila folders was set next to his laptop and phone. “Carrie, how are things going?”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “So, Justin, what did the doctors say about your recovery?”

  Justin shrugged. “They’re not certain, and it will depend on many factors. I’m in physio and rehab at the moment, and there’s good progress. I can walk short distances and stay on my feet for considerable periods of time.”

  “It’s good to hear that you’re doing better. You look better. The last time I saw you, you were quite pale.”

  “I’ve been out in the park, catching some sun, and reviewing those reports.” His voice took on a hint of regret. Field operations were out of the question, so Flavio had been keeping Justin busy with reviewing operatives’ after-action reports, to lighten his own burden.

  “Yes, good job on those. And here, I have a few more that just arrived.” Flavio handed Justin a three-inch-thick package containing perhaps a dozen or so red folders.

  “Eh ... all right.” Justin placed them next to his feet. “I thought I was going to return to a more active role.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve given it some thought, very serious thought. But we’ll deal with that in a moment. First, I’d like to cover a couple of other related matters.”

  “Sure.” Justin tried to sit back in his chair, but a cramp shot up through his leg. Thankfully, Flavio did not notice the grimace on Justin’s face, since the ECS chief was reaching for the manila folder at the top of the stack. “Yes, let’s start with this one. The op inside Afghanistan to assassinate Doma.”

  Flavio seemed to put a lot more emphasis on “assassinate” than necessary. They had had a long discussion about Justin’s judgment call to allow the Libyan terrorist to live and the decision’s potential impacts.

  Justin nodded, then said, “Who does the Afghan government suspect?”

  “They’re still blaming the Americans, regardless of how strongly they deny any involvement.”

  “Well, technically the Iranian Air Force used American-made planes, so there you have it,” Carrie said.

  The pilots carrying out the air strike against the convoy flew a Grumman F-14 Tomcat, the most powerful fighter aircraft when it was built in the United States of America in the mid-seventies. The then-King of Iran, Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, had bought 79 Tomcats along with 284 long-range AIM-54 Phoenix air-to-air missiles as part of a $2 billion arms deal. The US President at that time, Richard Nixon, and his national security advisor, Henry Kissinger, had promised the shah whatever he wanted, as long as he could pay for it, despite the Pentagon’s advice against the deal and the US State Department’s restrictive export policies for such state-of-the-art weapons.

  The deal was a crucial part of the effort to undermine the Soviet Union’s growing influence in the Persian Gulf and the wider Middle East, as the Soviet Union had sold Iraq—Iran’s sworn enemy—fighter jets, like the MiG-25s. In 1979, Islamic extremists overthrew the shah’s regime and brought to power Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. Iran became one of America’s sworn enemies, and still remained near the top of the list of national threats. At least forty F-14 Tomcats were reported to still be in service, after being meticulously maintained and upgraded for combat missions taking place in the twenty-first century.

  Flavio nodded. “This works well for us, as it leaves Iran and our involvement out of the picture.”

  Justin said, “Plus, the CIA had boots on the ground, so the Afghanis are not far off the mark.”

 

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