Taylor, Mark, and John took turns shaking Redman’s hand.
“Been awhile,” Taylor said.
Redman grinned, exposing yellowed teeth stained from chew. “Aw, Martin, you know you missed me. Kelly, you still look like shit. Frist, keep an eye on these two. You go to sleep one night, and when you wake up they’re playing grab-ass.”
Kelly shook his head, and a smile finally reached his sad, puppy-dog eyes. “He was trying to keep that sand spider away from me.”
Redman winked at Deion. “I’m sure that’s what they tell each other to make themselves feel better.”
Deion liked the man, and it wasn’t just because Redman saved their lives in Afghanistan. Redman was tough, a skilled warrior and a highly-trained killer, but with a fierce intelligence that shone through his eyes. He understood why Eric and Redman were such good friends.
“What have you got?” Deion asked.
Redman pointed to the laptop. “Nazer lives in the apartment across the street. I’ve got regular and infrared cameras pointed at his place, and a laser microphone pointed at his window. Stratello and Young are watching each end of the street. Nazer hasn’t left the apartment since we got here.”
“What’s he been doing?”
“Eating, sleeping, watching television. Seems like a mellow dude. We could breach the apartment and do a snatch and grab, have him out of the country in no time.”
“Any other organization have eyes on him?”
“No,” Redman said. “Al-Asad’s been cracking down, but there’s no sign they’re keeping tabs on Nazer. That info cost me fifty bucks and a case of cigarettes.”
Deion rolled his eyes. “We’ll reimburse you. Let’s get settled in. I want to see your recordings, but first I have to make a call.”
He stepped away from the others and spoke quietly into his earpiece mic. “We made it.”
“What have you got?” Nancy asked.
“Nothing yet. I’ll have Redman upload the data.”
“What about Al-Hakim?”
“That’s a negative. Nazer hasn’t left his apartment and no sign of Al-Hakim. Redman wants to do an extraction.”
There was silence on the phone. Then, “Eric says hold. Too many risks during the daylight. If it comes to that, I’ve arranged a place for the interrogation.”
“Copy that. Anything else?”
“Karen is working on something from Nashville, but she has nothing on the location of the bomb.”
Damn. We’re going to have to grab this guy. “Just give us the signal for the extraction.”
“Will do. Watch yourself. We still don’t know why they killed Sadir. If Al-Qaeda decides to kill Nazer, don’t get caught in the crossfire.”
He snorted. “Going soft on me? That’s not like you.”
“You’ve grown on me. I would hate to carry you home in a body bag.”
“Touching,” he said, then ended the call.
Redman was watching him. “That the girl from Afghanistan? Simon?”
He guffawed. “No. The other one. Nancy.”
Redman’s eyes narrowed. “A real ballbuster, that one. Spooky.” He tapped his index finger against his temple. “No one at home, if you catch my drift.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
The day passed slowly. Deion and Redman took turns monitoring the camera, while Taylor, Mark, John, and Morse played poker with an ancient set of Bicycle cards Morse carried in his pocket. Deion tried to follow the rules of the game, but found the men kept switching it, making an ever increasingly complex game whose rules were understood only by them.
They stopped late in the afternoon to eat cold MRE’s, filling their water bottles with gritty powdered sports drink packets. The window air conditioner did little to lessen the afternoon heat, but Deion couldn’t complain. He had endured far worse in Kandahar and Bagram, not to mention the moist hellhole of Guantanamo.
The sun was setting when his earpiece crackled to life. “Extraction is a go,” Nancy said.
“Roger that. When?”
“Midnight. Once you have him, I want everyone out. Redman’s team follows you.”
“We’ll be there before dawn,” he said.
Redman raised an eyebrow. “We gonna blow this popsicle stand?”
The others stopped their card game. The tension in the room was thick, the men’s boredom finally giving way to excitement. He knew sitting all day with nothing to do was torture for them. As he looked into each of their faces, he saw the eagerness, the resolve, the desire to act.
Except for John, whose face was oddly blank. It wasn’t the first time he had noticed John’s hesitation, his lack of engagement. The StrikeForce technology may have turned John into a fierce warrior, but John lacked something. The killer instinct.
It was a conundrum. How could John, a man who bombed the Red Cross, killing hundreds of innocent civilians, be so reluctant to fight? He tried to broach the subject with Eric, but Eric always brushed aside his concerns.
“The extraction will be at midnight. John, you’re in first, followed by Flipper and Mark. Taylor, find a hide. Redman, your men will drive the vans. Once we have Nazer, we head for Turkey. I want to make the border by 02:00.”
Redman’s grinned again, exposing his stained teeth. “I like your thinking.”
“We’ve got time,” Deion said. “We go through it. And when we’re done, we go through it again.”
They talked over the operation, each man verifying his job, and then the other men’s jobs. It was important they understood every man’s position. The last thing they needed was an accident.
It was almost eleven when Deion glanced out the window. Even with the light from the nearby apartment windows, the sky was an inky black. The men and women of Aleppo had briefly enjoyed the evening, taking the opportunity to eat and talk before turning in, and now the streets below were deserted, the sound of traffic a muted rumble in the distance.
He watched as Stratello and Young moved from their positions at each end of the street. From a distance, both men appeared to be locals. He was impressed. With their dark tans and beards, he would never have guessed they were Delta Operators.
Taylor had disappeared shortly before, carrying a long canvas bag. Now Deion’s earpiece crackled. “I’m in position. You have overlook.”
Deion nodded. Taylor’s sniper rifle would provide them protection, if needed. He turned to John, who was putting on the last of the Battlesuit. The transformation was terrifying. The black liquid armor panels gave John a sleek, almost space-age look, the impression only reinforced when John closed the VISOR’s clamshell.
Deion had asked Doctor Elliot why the VISOR’s face was smooth and Elliot had replied that it provided more protection, but then admitted that a faceless, featureless black carbon-fiber helmet scared the daylights out of enemy combatants.
John holstered his M11’s, then picked up his HK. It was a cut-down version of his usual HK417, chambered for a 7.62mm round, and had excellent stopping power. John inserted a magazine and cycled the bolt, then turned to Deion and bowed his head.
Deion gave him the thumbs up. “Flipper, everything you see is classified. It never happened, you dig?”
Morse stared at John’s suit, opened-mouthed. “I understand. I… I’ve heard rumors, I just never believed them.”
Deion scowled, then turned to Redman.
Redman stared at the ceiling. “He didn’t hear it from me, brother.”
They had worked with numerous Operators and SEAL’s over the past two years. It was crazy to assume that no one would talk of the mysterious young man in the fancy combat gear. “I want you ready to go. In the meantime, we need to pack this gear and be prepared to haul ass.”