I should just shoot this asshole, he thought as a shadow appeared against the wall. He knew the suppressor would be too loud, though, and the last thing he needed was the cops on his back.
The man from the street slipped into his view, his light skin almost glowing against the dark walls. He was well dressed and had the deformed ears of a wrestler. Mason waited as the man slipped a pistol out of his jacket and shot a quick look back toward the computer terminals.
Mason could tell that it was some kind of Beretta knockoff, and that meant the man was local. He just hoped he was poorly trained.
The edges of the man’s mouth turned up in a smile as he took a shooting stance in the middle of the door and slowly began to turn the knob with his nonfiring hand. Mason silently rose into a crouch as the door cracked open. With the knife at the ready, he stepped out of the shadows.
He was trying to time it so that he would slip behind the assassin just as the door came open all the way, but his hip gently bumped the crate and the subtle noise gave away his position as he stepped out into the open.
The man stiffened and, with his hand still on the knob, turned toward the sound. Mason brought the knife up, the blade aimed at his spine, but the man was already moving. He missed his spine, but sunk the blade into his back. Yelling in pain, the man turned abruptly as Mason shoved him into the bathroom, losing control of the knife as the pistol arced toward his face.
Mason tried to duck, but he was too close and he felt the jarring blow glance off his scalp. Dazed, the American stumbled backward as blood gushed from the wound. Recovering quickly, Mason got his hand on the man’s pistol and forced the slide back with his right hand.
His attacker kneed him in the stomach and Mason gasped for air but managed to weakly hook the man’s leg with his heel, trying to force him off balance. Despite the knife stuck in his back, the man easily avoided the trip and sent an awkward cross toward Mason’s jaw.
Refusing to let go of the pistol, Mason lowered his head and took the punch on the top of his skull. His attacker cursed and began frantically pulling the trigger, but the weapon refused to fire. Mason took advantage of the fact that his attacker’s finger was stuck inside the trigger guard and twisted hard on the pistol. Too late the man tried to free his finger. A second later Mason heard the fragile bones finally snap.
Ignoring the man’s curses, he brought his elbow over the top and caught him in the chin. The assassin buckled at the knees and fell hard on his back. Mason heard the blade snap off as the man slammed into the filthy tile floor.
Mason’s foot slipped in the pool of blood, but he caught his balance and drove his heel down on the man’s throat. The man gurgled and his legs shot out as Mason crushed his windpipe with a sickening crunch.
Panting heavily, he closed the door behind him and checked to ensure his attacker was dead. Rifling through the man’s pockets, he grabbed his wallet and phone and moved painfully over to the dirty glass mirror stuck to the wall.
He was bleeding from the gash on his forehead, and the left side of his face was caked in blood. Mason turned back to the corpse and ripped off a section of the man’s shirt. Returning to the mirror, he did his best to clean up. He was sure the fight had attracted unwanted attention and he needed to get moving.
The American stepped out of the bathroom, broke the key off in the lock, and slipped his sunglasses on. The frames had been cracked in the fight, and they sat awkwardly on his face as he walked to the front. He had no idea how the man had tracked him to the café and couldn’t be sure if any more assassins were waiting for him on the outside.
Mason headed for the front door, pausing for a second to look at the attendant, who had produced a rusted revolver from an open lockbox under the desk. The man’s hands shook as he took in the American’s savage expression and slowly placed the revolver on the ground.
Mason nodded at the terrified Arab, cracked the front door, and then stepped out into the street. Ducking off into an alley, he pulled out his phone and smashed it beneath his foot. They were tracking him somehow, and he cursed himself for not checking the envelope he’d gotten from Vernon before leaving the café.
“You’re getting sloppy,” he said to himself as he skimmed through the stack of bills, then paused to light a cigarette.
There was no tracker, and he breathed out a smoke-filled sigh, knowing there was one more thing he needed to do before he could leave town and this was as good a place as any to do it.
The American pulled a small pill case from his pocket. It was the same type found at any pharmacy in the States, except instead of pills, the case held a neat row of SIM cards. He removed the SIM card from the dead man’s phone and slipped it into the compartment labeled “Friday.” After replacing it with one of his own, he dialed the number to Vernon’s work phone.
Mason had been on the ground in Iraq when the military realized the limitless possibilities of cell phone data. When he was in Task Force 120, they had techs attached who would hard-wire into the cell phone towers that the US was putting up all over the country and pull data usage and locations right from the source.
Mason had configured the SIM card to project one of the trunk lines from CIA headquarters in Langley, so when Vernon answered the phone he assumed that he was taking a call from his boss.
“Hello?” he said from across the city.
Mason didn’t say anything; there really wasn’t a need. As soon as Vernon answered, Mason typed a three-digit code into the phone and hit the send key. The code activated the detonator attached to the small charge in the CIA man’s phone.
When the line went dead, Mason knew it was because the phone had just exploded.
CHAPTER 8
Cage’s military bearing was the only thing that kept a smile from playing across his face as the DoD analyst worked through his PowerPoint briefing. He waited patiently as the man walked deeper into a trap that no one in the room knew had even been set.
“Mr. President,” the man said as he used the small clicker to switch to a slide of the Mideast. “We believe that the conflict in Syria is burning out and that the recent up-swell in violence is simply the last gasps of a movement reaching the limit of its abilities.”
“So you are telling me that there is nothing to worry about?” the president asked.
“We believe so, but we are taking steps to ensure the outcome we desire,” Collins interjected smugly.
“What in the hell does that mean?” Cage said, unable to contain himself any longer.
“Excuse me?”
“I haven’t heard anything that sounds remotely like actionable intelligence, so what exactly are you talking about? I assume that you have someone on the ground giving you real-time information.”
“We are using signal intercepts and UAVs to gather intelligence.”
“That’s not going to be enough, and you know it.”
“We have other measures in place,” Collins shot back.
“Well, I think everyone would love to hear about them.”
Collins looked at the president, hoping his boss would save him, but Bradley seemed to be agreeing with his security advisor.
“Duke’s right, I don’t think that’s going to be enough. What else do you have?”
“We have a program in place that is arming and advising certain elements of the Syrian opposition,” the analyst said hesitantly.
“Does the CIA know about this?” Cage demanded.
“This isn’t a CIA briefing, it’s a DoD brief,” Collins interjected. “If you will let him finish, he might just answer all of your questions.”