The man nodded as blood ran down his mangled right hand and onto his soiled gray shirt. Mason knew he was weighing his options.
As a child, Mason had been soft, and he’d paid for it. Growing up in a tough neighborhood meant that he had to get either stronger or smarter. He had taken more than his share of beatings, but that person was gone now, purified and hardened by the cauldron of war. There was nothing soft in him now, and if not for the constant struggle to keep his humanity, he could easily have been just like Decklin.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the Algerian said finally.
Mason steadied the pistol and squeezed the trigger, firing a round into the Arab’s kneecap. Karim was already screaming before the expended brass tinked off the concrete floor.
“Karim, you’re smarter than this. Don’t make me be an asshole.”
“Mason, I swear to you—”
The American lined the Glock’s sights up with his other knee and slowly moved his finger to the trigger.
“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. The man with the CIA.”
“Vernon?” Mason asked.
He had never trusted the man, but he’d never expected him to sell him out — especially not to Barnes.
“Yes, there was never a job. This was all about delivering you to Decklin.”
Mason stepped away from the bed, struggling with what he knew he should do next. Karim deserved to die, but the American was trying to get free of all the death.
He grabbed a towel off the floor near the door, and tossing it to Karim, he said, “I don’t ever want to see you again. If I do, you’re dead.”
Mason took the back way out of the apartment. The heat of the day had not yet fallen on the city, and the streets were crowded as he headed toward the Gueliz district. The “new city” attracted American tourists and wealthy Europeans, and he walked as quickly as possible through the sea of faces without attracting any unnecessary attention.
He’d had a rough life but had never been one to blame his situation on others. Mason wished he could say that his mother had done her best, but that was a lie. The only thing she ever cared about was getting wasted, and while most kids had childhoods full of good memories, he had the sullen days and violent nights of an alcoholic’s son. His mother might not have loved him, but she’d made him into a survivor from day one.
Tossing the Makarov into a trash bin, he took out his phone and dialed a number. A moment later a man answered in Arabic.
“Yes?”
“You were right, it was Vernon. Have you finished the download?”
“I’m just leaving. I will send what I have to your phone,” the man replied.
“Good. He’s at the Emirates Café. Bring the package with you.”
Ten minutes later, Mason was standing in the shadows, near the front of the Emirates Café, scanning the documents stolen from Vernon’s computer. A pair of sunglasses hid his dark eyes as he glanced at the target’s table.
The glare made it hard to read the smudged screen, and he was just about to hold the phone up when something clicked. It had taken less than a millisecond for his brain to interpret the two words that his eyes had seen, and he frantically swiped backward until he saw them again.
“Operation Karakul,” it read.
He felt his heart skip in his chest, and a wave of adrenaline washed through his nervous system. He was barely able to steady his finger enough to open the message.
Mason’s time in Anvil had given him access to more classified data than the entire analyst division at Langley. It was important that his team could track threats as they evolved, and he had come across the name “Karakul” before — it was the code name for Hamid Karzai, the president of Afghanistan.
The e-mail was from Razor 5, which he knew to be the call sign attached to the Joint Special Operations Command, but it was the content that floored him. It was simple and to the point: “Razor 5 confirms Operation Karakul is a go. Prosecute target ASAP.”
Mason couldn’t believe it. His mind scrambled as he slipped the phone back into his pocket and stared at Vernon, who was sitting at an outside table in front of the café methodically wiping the inside of his empty glass with a white napkin.
“This motherfucker,” Mason muttered, running his hand quickly over his dark, slicked-back hair. Flicking the cigarette into the street, he made his way to the front door and disappeared inside.
The surprise on the CIA agent’s face when Mason appeared before him told the soldier everything he needed to know.
The Algerian had told the truth; Vernon had betrayed him.
“Sorry to drop in like this, but it’s been a hectic couple of days.”
Vernon smiled sickly and tried to stall by taking a sip of water. “It’s good to see you. I was just… having some lunch. I didn’t know you were back,” the spy stammered honestly.
“You gave me a job and I did it. Now I’m back for your end of the bargain,” Mason said as he studied the spy’s reaction.
“Uhh, yes, of course.” Vernon turned white and scanned the crowded café, looking for a way out and trying to tell whether Mason was alone.
The waiter approached, and Mason ordered coffee and hummus and lit a cigarette with a battered Zippo while the man squirmed across the table.
“You aren’t going to order anything?” he asked innocently.
“No, I’m not really hungry.”
Mason watched tiny beads of perspiration appear on the spy’s forehead. His pupils dilated and he shifted often in his chair as he struggled to get comfortable.
Who the fuck is Razor 5? he wanted to scream at the man, but he had to play it cool if he hoped to use the spy. Vernon was a slippery son of a bitch who might have been short on brains, but he was long on cunning. In fact, he was slick enough to make a career out of what had started as a joke.
The first time someone suggested arming a drone, everyone had laughed, but Vernon saw value in the idea and managed to gather enough support to get his own team. Five months later, the room was packed as Vernon’s armed Predator smoked a house full of jihadists. He went from zero to hero before the shrapnel ever hit the ground, and soon after, he was charged with populating the kill list the drones would use for targeting jihadists. It was a good job, with zero oversight, which made him a perfect match for Barnes.
How had he not seen it coming, Mason thought. Vernon and the colonel fit together like pieces of a puzzle, but he’d been so desperate, so eager to trust, that he had let his guard down.
Vernon was back to inspecting the glass when the waiter returned to the table, and Mason spoke to him in Arabic.
“He’s afraid of germs,” Mason said, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the glass.
“Fucking Americans and their germs,” the waiter replied before walking off.
Mason slipped the sunglasses off his face and stared at Vernon. “We had a deal. I work for you, and you get me back to America. You remember that, don’t you?”
“The deal is still on, I promise. This has to be a mistake. Let me make a call…” Vernon started to reach into his pocket and Mason slammed his palm down on the table.
“Hold on there, boss. If you are trying to call Karim, let me save you the trouble. I just killed him.”
The man froze, his hand an inch from the light jacket he was wearing. Mason could tell he was trying to figure out whether Mason was going to kill him in the open or let him live. The agent loved war by proxy, but when the conflict was right in his face, he became very uncomfortable.