Sabotage: Beginnings (2 page)

“I wish we were riding in on horses. Since we’re more like inchworms than cowboys, let’s get to the ridge and have a look. You got a problem with Pakistan?”

Her dust-covered shemagh scrunched, as if she were making a face. “Inchworm?”

“It’s American—like The Duke.” He bobbed his chin to signal they should move on.

Justice, now in the lead, wormed his way up the remainder of the sheer cliff wall. She trailed close behind. Purposefully shaved by the military, the rock’s smoothed effect prevented enemies from climbing the mountain walls.

They were no typical enemy.

He’d read Batya’s dossier hours before an introduction for the mission. Israeli’s Mossad was their country’s best counter-terrorism unit. Their storied past had its early ups and downs, similar to Justice’s beloved military Special Forces units, but when it came to the craft of killing, no one beat their spies. Batya, like many Jewish operatives, began her career in Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security unit, and then transferred to Aman, their military intelligence division. Her portfolio said she’d worked with both branches before being called to duty as a Mossad covert operative.

Justice held up his left arm. His clenched fist signaled for Batya to freeze where she was. He snaked his long physique across a semi-level landing. The scope was pressed against his right eye. His left eye, almost useless, he pressed closed to minimize the distractions. Laser-focused, he cursed across stretched lips that tried to cheat the hot air for a whiff of a cooler breeze.

“Three bogies.”

“So much for the veracity of your American intelligence,” she huffed.

He looked at the way back down to where their journey began. “It was a drone’s flyover. Just a few hours ago.” Dejected, Justice licked his lips—they felt like sandpaper.

“You Westerners rely upon too much technology. Nothing beats old fashion eyes on target.”

He broke visual contact with the three guards to glare at her. She gave off no emotional indicators. This woman’s bio read like a Sylvester Stallone movie character. She was as real as they came. But could she walk the walk when the shit hit the fan?

“What would you suggest then, Miss-know-it-all?”

“My surname is Cohen, not Knowitall,” she challenged. “Who do those lost souls belong to?”

Justice shrugged.

“You saved me from tumbling a long way down. Let me dispatch these three,” she said with cold confidence. Her light hazel eyes rarely blinked.

Justice eased out a chuckle. His attention was back on their targets. He wasn’t able to detect insignia. They were either rebels or terrorists. He nodded to Batya. His lips curled upward—she understood he was questioning her.

“How deep did you dig into my resume?” she taunted.

“I heard you’re Kidon.”

“Yes, that is correct,” she stated with a matter of fact.

Justice’s first inclination was to laugh. No way was she an infamously covert assassin for the Mossad’s Caesarea. He’d soon find out, but if she was, he was in the presence of greatness. Wouldn’t pay, though, to let her know how he felt.

She leaned deep over the rock formation until her dried, cracked lips almost touched his temple. The warm air from her whispers tingled the fuzzy lobe of his ear. He cracked another smile.

“Once you have had your fill of boyhood giggles, you will do well to pay me proper respect.”

He stopped grinning—insulted by her insolence.

“I can take out two from here without problem. The third one will be the one closest to us. He will panic and flee. You must intercept him.”

Is this woman fucking serious?

“Sorry honey, I’m here to erase Benjamin Franklin Ford, not chase down your runaways.”

Her hard glare ripped off a look that could’ve killed a weaker man. “Honey? I’m about to assassinate two bees from over a thousand yards on the move. I deserve better than that.”

Her stare went back on target—finger on trigger.

Maybe she
can
walk the walk.

T
he Safed Koh
mountain range extended further than he could’ve imagined. Ben Ford, the American agent, also realized the tribesmen knew it better than he did. That gave both of them an advantage. They couldn’t escape, and Ben Ford couldn’t call in reinforcements. Actually, Ben could’ve given a shit about calling in help—he was sent by the United States government to perform his duties as he was trained to do—alone.

Six council elders from the Popi Tribe sat on fur pelts atop sunbaked earthen terrain and gnarled tree stumps. Faces of crinkled leather skin, hardened by struggle and war, gave no indication of comprehension as Ben tried to banter from beneath a foliage canopy. They were unimpressed by this Westerner.

Although considered short by U.S. standards, at five-feet-seven, Ben commanded respect. He was adorned in their country’s traditional
salwar
kameez
, a cotton and polyester tunic that had become his daily attire. In it, he felt more engrained with the culture, though his European features were unmistakable.

Benjamin “Ben” Franklin Ford still had the sense for United States military discipline, but his ultra-secret training by the Central Intelligence Agency had instilled a greater appreciation for adopting the local customs. True to his blue-blooded upbringing and his West Point Academy appointment, he also knew to dress up for occasions. Despite the high temperatures, Ben arrived wearing a dark-colored waistcoat over his beige pajama-like trousers and seamless blouse. Again, the elders didn’t look to be impressed.

“Thank you for meeting with me, elders.” Intensity in his eyes blazed with potential.

The chief elder, known as Al bin Tosk sucked against the hookah. Vaporized mist filled the air with the scent of flavored shisha. “What do you want?”

“I want what you want. Osama bin Laden.” Hollow black eyes ducked behind his wire framed classes. They were ink-dark—black as death, but still intensity glared from his gaze.

“You are mistaken, comrade.” Al bin Tosk laughed.

“Chief Elder, I’ve come a great distance for the honor of your company. Please refrain from inferences of communistic affiliations. I’m one hundred percent American.” Ben’s voice hitched against the back of his throat.

Al bin Tosk sneered. Wrinkles formed in his wooden face until the ancient etchings looked so deep as to touch bone. Purposefully long on his draw and exhale of tobacco smoke, Al bin Tosk muttered something inaudible to the tribal elder on his right side.

“Dumb ass,” the other man said in Dari, the language of Afghan Persian.

Rage surged like whitecaps through Ben’s veins. They could disagree as gentlemen, but there never was a good reason to be insulting.

Al bin Tosk said, “Agreed.”

“Sir, might I ask your name?” Ben spoke in the man’s native tongue.

Shock washed away the old man’s arrogant expression, “Anwar is my name.” His brownish-green eyes welded toward the dirt.

Ben’s smashed his desert camo-colored boot into the water basin’s smoking bowl. Glass spit into Anwar’s face. The old man winced.

“Dumb ass?” Ben knew he’d blown it by alerting them that he understood their native tongue. He saw the shock in Al bin Tosk’s reddened eyes. “Tell me where to find bin Laden or I’ll show you how much of a dumb ass I can be.”

Al bin Tosk waved his meatless hand between Ben and Anwar. “Enough of this heathen action. You come to our country and expect us to treat you like royalty? The chief councilman tried to push his body from off the hard ground.

“Sit down old man. I’m not done.” Ben felt out of body. His anger swelled. He’d come too far to leave empty handed. One of these men would spill it.

Ben saw the blow coming from the corner of his right eye—he ducked left. Another Afghani fell forward with his sandal in his hand. The man, younger looking than the others, tried to strike him from behind with his shoe. Which Ben knew was a serious form of insult.

He snapped.

The man, known to Ben as Quati, had just regained his balance—dusty sandal still in hand. Ben zipped his steel KA-BAR knife from the sheath concealed beneath his waistcoat. Both men turned toward each other. Ben rammed the tip of the razor-sharp blade through Quati’s Adam’s apple. Quati remained standing only because Ben held him up. He died once the knife severed his spine and exited through the skin at the back of Quati’s leathery neck.

The kill flipped a switch in Ben that became more difficult to control with repetition. He glowered at the remaining five. Their expressions ranged from surprise to a lack of concern for their fellow council member. Finally, he noticed the tremble in Al bin Tosk’s right hand. They were scared shitless.

“Anybody else care to swing a shoe at this dumbass?” He zeroed in on the man who’d first stirred up this entire episode.

“You are
Iblis
,” Anwar shouted.

Ben lunged at him. The man flinched—both hands covering his face in surrender. “You think I’m the devil? Well, isn’t that an upgrade from a dumbass? Lets celebrate, shall we?” Ben chuckled maniacally.

“That’s enough,” Al bin Tosk ordered. He slammed his ornately carved walking stick against a jagged rock.

“Who do you think you are, Moses? You going to bring water from this rock old man?” Ben, basted in sweat, felt his heart beat elevating.

Al bin Tosk scoffed, “We have no fairy tale Moses in our faith. It’s time for you to leave this land. Now!” he screamed.

Ben’s body trembled—it wouldn’t be long. “One last chance. Where is Osama bin Laden?”

“Go home,
Iblis
,” Anwar said.

Ben grabbed the old man by his tunic, jerked Anwar to his feet. The man’s tattered hemp sandals remained where they were.

“Where is he?” Ben said.

“You’re worse than he is.”

Ben whispered, “Where?”

“Go home,
Iblis
. We prefer the treatment of bin Laden. At least he doesn’t come disguised.”

Ben pulled the reed-thin man toward him. Anwar’s feet left the ground. Ben smashed his forehead into the tribesman’s nose and eyes. Blood exploded from Anwar’s mahogany-colored face. The high altitude and thin air made bleeding much easier and clotting very difficult. Anwar crumbled limp.

Ben clamped his teeth against Anwar’s throat. He blacked out for a moment, but remained in control of his actions. His teeth gnashed and jerked as he powerfully brought them together with all the strength Ben could muster, until he felt cartilage give. He continued to bite and tear until Anwar’s larynx dangled from between his teeth.

Ben released Anwar’s bloodstained salwar kameez, and he fell.

“You want your
Iblis
, you got him. I’m your devil now. Tell me where Osama bin Laden is, or I’ll kill every one of you.” He glared with a wide-eyed expression, allowing the whisk of wind to carry sand against his pupils. He didn’t flinch—focus was on his mission—to find Osama bin Laden.

Al bin Tosk’s frail figure quaked. “Is this what America promised for our people? Send deviants like you to help us? I regret the first time I ever met you Ben Franklin Ford.” Tears dampened his greenish-brown eyes, “Please, go back to America.”

“Listen up. You agreed to help me. You will help, or I’ve no need for you or your Popi tribe.”

Ben’s Middle East mission was crystal clear—find Osama bin Laden, or don’t come back. It used to twist his gut that the country he loved and served, disregarded him as disposable. But, to be fair, he’d known the risk, just not the bullshit attached. The CIA oversaw the entire experiment—another reason to expect the unexpected.

The Agency had promised Ben, as a young recruit, he’d never be the same after serving as a covert operative. He’d withdrawn from the prestigious West Point Military Academy, and sprinted full-speed into the eager arms of CIA scientists and bureaucrats. He still hated them for what they’d done to him, but as time dragged on, he’d forgotten what it was he hated about what they did. He had become who he was.

Al bin Tosk was speaking. Ben’s mind warbled back.

“…do what you wish with us—we’re not afraid to die for our cause—but leave our people alone. They don’t deserve to be doomed by one man’s selfish wrath.”

“Who’s the youngest?” Ben’s mind flashed between controlled manipulation tactics and an intense thirst for blood.

“What?” Al bin Tosk snugged his scarf up to his bearded chin.

Ben struggled to settle his mind, and decided he’d move onto the next phase of this plan. He’d do whatever it took to capture the terrorist responsible for murdering 2,980 Americans during the coordinated attacks on September 11, 2001. He’d also been in this region and Europe for over a year. He’d grown tired of the culture and the men.

“Which of you traitors is the youngest?” he pointed at a man who appeared to be in his fifties. They all looked eternal, so it was impossible to tell. “Him?” he jabbed a finger toward that man.

“Sunni, yes, he is the youngest of the council.” Al bin Tosk replied.

Ben moved with reinvigorated momentum. He sensed the end game—he’d played it out too many times before. He snatched Sunni and strapped his reedy hide to a small tree. Horror exploded in Sunni’s expression. Ben noticed the Al bin Tosk, their brave man of honor, had pissed his salwar. He looked like an infant who’d just messed his jammies.