Seated beside an open window in his hotel room on the eighth floor, Mixell examined the weapon on the table before him: a Steyr SSG 69 rifle with a ten-round box magazine, propped up by an integrated folding bipod. He placed an eye against the attached Kahles ZF 95 Riflescope, peering through the center crack of the room’s drawn curtains, studying the two men in Issad Futtaim’s office across the street, visible through one of the windows.
Although the Steyr SSG was a highly accurate weapon, Mixell had picked up the rifle only an hour ago and hadn’t had time to acquire a zero. The dealer had assured him the rifle was sighted in, but that didn’t mean a thing; zeros were different for each shooter. Still, for today’s distance, the Steyr was more than up to the task. However, in case he failed to obtain a clear shot or somehow missed, a dozen armed men were only a block away, awaiting his signal.
Satisfied his weapon and mercenaries were ready, Mixell shifted his attention to the laptop computer beside him, connected wirelessly to a satellite, and entered his password. Although the software routine he was about to execute had been prepared weeks ago, he was implementing it earlier than planned; the CIA had tracked him to Futtaim much quicker than he had expected. He entered the security code, then halted the routine one keyboard click away from executing.
Mixell peered through the window, studying the street below as he waited for Harrison’s arrival.
It was quiet in the backseat of the sedan as it navigated the busy streets. A few blocks from Futtaim’s building, Harrison paused from making a mental map of the route Mussan was taking, to examine Khalila beside him. She was dressed similar to the day before, except she wore no niqab this time, just a hijab wrapped around her hair and neck, leaving her face exposed. She had explained that there was no need for concealment; Akram Aboud, Futtaim’s executive assistant, as well as Futtaim himself, knew who she was.
Khalila seemed tense, and Harrison couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling she was holding something back. Before leaving the hotel, she had tested both knives concealed in her jacket sleeves several times, verifying they were easily and reliably retrieved. She recommended he carry a firearm, but that he leave it in the car, since he would be disarmed upon entering the building.
Their driver, Nizar Mussan, also seemed nervous, although it could’ve been Harrison’s imagination. While looking in the rearview mirror, Mussan’s eyes shifted occasionally to examine his two passengers, with keen interest displayed when their case manager, Asad Durrani, called with an update. Earlier in the day, the two-million-dollar bribe had been approved, and Khalila reviewed the account information on her phone.
As they approached their destination, Mussan slowed and pulled over to the curb, stopping a short distance from the entrance to Futtaim’s building.
Harrison was easy to spot, standing a head taller than most, as he and a woman stepped from a sedan. Mixell tucked the butt of the rifle against his right shoulder and peered through the scope, centering the crosshairs on Harrison’s head as he strolled up the sidewalk toward the building entrance. Mixell released the air from his lungs and was about to squeeze the trigger when a bus pulled in front of Harrison, grinding to a halt in the congested street.
Mixell cursed as he looked up, then pulled the curtains back slightly, trying to regain Harrison when he stepped out from behind the vehicle. But the bus moved forward, staying between Mixell and Harrison as traffic snaked along, clearing the entrance to Futtaim’s building as Harrison disappeared into the lobby.
There had been no guarantee Mixell would be able to take Harrison out on the crowded sidewalk, so he had selected a hotel room across from the building, one offering a clear view of a good portion of Futtaim’s office.
After entering the lobby, Harrison and Khalila passed through a metal detector where they were screened by one of four uniformed guards. As Khalila recommended, Harrison had left his firearm in the car, and Khalila’s knives went undetected as they cleared security.
They rode the elevator to the eighth floor and entered a reception area adjacent to Futtaim’s office, where they were greeted by a man wearing a gray suit and open-collared white shirt, leaning against a desk. Harrison scanned the surroundings, realizing the office’s normal protocols had been altered. On the receptionist’s desk were a few photos of a woman and her family, none of which contained the man beside the desk. The receptionist had been sent home early.
The man eyed Khalila before introducing himself to Harrison in English.
“I am Akram Aboud, Mr. Futtaim’s executive assistant.”
Harrison assessed Aboud as they shook hands, noticing a slight bulge under the left side of his suit jacket—a pistol in a shoulder holster—as Aboud inquired about the purpose of the meeting.
Harrison hadn’t understood what Khalila said to Aboud in the car yesterday when she arranged the meeting, so he deferred to Khalila, who answered, “We’ll discuss the details once we meet with Futtaim.”
Aboud whipped his head toward Khalila and his voice dropped a notch. “I’m talking to Mr. Connolly, not you.” Khalila shot him a cold look as he returned his attention to Harrison. “Assuming that’s your real name, of course.” Aboud offered a tight smile.
Harrison smiled back. “As Khalila mentioned, we’ll discuss the details when we meet with Futtaim.”
Aboud stared at Harrison, who found the Arab’s neutral expression unreadable. Then Aboud broke into a wide grin and spread his hands apart.
“Of course. We will meet with Issad. He is awaiting your arrival.”
Mixell dropped his eye to the scope again as Aboud entered Futtaim’s office, followed by Harrison and the Arab woman. They had entered quickly, with Harrison stopping behind the brick facade between two windows, leaving Mixell with a clear view only of the woman and Aboud, plus Futtaim, who rose from his desk. Considering the circumstances—all three targets in the same location—Mixell reassessed his priorities.
Although nothing would make him happier than putting a bullet in Harrison’s head, Mixell’s primary objectives were Futtaim and his executive assistant, who knew what he had procured. Tying up loose ends meant eliminating the risk that either man would divulge his secret or that the information could be harvested from Futtaim’s computer files. Once Mixell pulled the trigger and the first man went down, the others would have time to react.
As Futtaim approached his two guests, Mixell analyzed the possible permutations in the order of attack.
“Khalila!” Futtaim said as he strode across his office, smiling. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Akram has told me much about you.”
“All lies, I’m sure,” Khalila said as she glanced at Aboud, who offered a cold stare.
A few pleasantries were exchanged as Futtaim shook Harrison’s hand, then Futtaim asked, “How can I help you?” He looked first at Harrison, then at Khalila.
Khalila answered, “We understand a customer recently made an expensive weapon purchase. We’re also interested in a purchase. We’d like to know who made the procurement and what he bought.”
Futtaim hesitated before replying. “That is a delicate subject,” he said. “It is house policy to not reveal our customers.”
“We’re prepared to pay handsomely for this one-time transgression. Two million U.S. dollars.”
“It is as I expected,” Aboud interrupted. “There is no reason to continue this meeting.”
He then shifted to Arabic, addressing Futtaim. Khalila interjected frequently, her voice rising and her gestures becoming animated as she argued with Aboud. For Futtaim’s part, he seemed to be on the receiving end of Aboud’s and Khalila’s arguments as each attempted to sway him to their side.
“You are a disgrace!” Aboud said to Khalila in English. He turned to Harrison. “Has she told you who she is? That she’s—”
There was a blur of movement from Khalila as a knife flew from her hand, piercing Aboud’s neck.
He fell to his knees, then extracted the knife, but it only made matters worse. Blood pulsed from the wound with every heartbeat. He clamped his hands around his throat, attempting to stem the flow, but blood oozed between his fingers. Futtaim watched in shock as the color drained from Aboud’s face, before he tilted forward and landed on the floor.
“He talks too much,” Khalila said as she approached Aboud and retrieved her knife, wiping the blood from the blade on Aboud’s suit.
She turned to Futtaim, the knife still in one hand. “The information,” she said. “In return, we’ll pay you two million. You get the weapon sale, we get the information, you’re two million richer, and no one will know.”
Futtaim pondered Khalila’s proposal, then retreated toward a laptop on his desk. As he settled into his chair, Harrison noticed the man’s thumb pressing a red button on the intercom panel on his desk. It took Harrison a split second to conclude Futtaim had signaled the security guards in the lobby.
Before either Harrison or Khalila could react, a red cloud jetted from the side of Futtaim’s head, and he slumped onto his desk as blood poured from a hole in his temple.
Seconds earlier, Mixell had decided he could wait no longer, even though he still didn’t have a shot on Harrison. Futtaim looked like he was about to reveal his purchase. He had lined up the crosshairs and squeezed the trigger gently, putting a round through Futtaim’s head.
Harrison was still out of view, but the woman remained in sight. He shifted the crosshairs toward her, squeezing off another round as Harrison bolted into view, slamming into the woman and knocking her to the floor.
Harrison and the woman were still on the floor or staying low, leaving no targets in view. Mixell moved away from the window to avoid counterfire, then dialed the stored number on his cell phone.
“Proceed,” he ordered.
He hung up, then turned his attention to the laptop on the table and pressed Enter on the keyboard. He waited a few seconds to ensure the program began executing, then slipped the computer into his backpack and left the room.
Harrison had known instantly the shot had come through the window, his assessment confirmed by shattered glass falling to the floor. Khalila, on the other hand, had turned toward the sound of the breaking glass. Harrison dove for her, knocking her to the ground as a second shot pierced Futtaim’s office, narrowly missing her before embedding in the far wall.
Harrison scrambled across the floor toward Aboud and searched the dead Arab, finding a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster. He checked the magazine—fully loaded with seventeen rounds.
Two uniformed guards surged into the room and quickly came to the incorrect conclusion: Futtaim—slumped over his desk with a hole in his head; Aboud—sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood; and Harrison—holding Aboud’s Glock.
Both guards swiveled toward Harrison, bringing their pistols to bear, but Harrison was faster. He put two bullets into each man’s chest, followed by a third round to each guard’s head, dropping them to the floor.
Harrison positioned himself against the wall and peered through the broken window, pulling back after a quick glance. There was an open window across the street but no sign of the shooter. However, on the street below, a dozen armed men swarmed toward the building’s entrance. They were dressed in ordinary clothes and not uniforms, and Harrison concluded they weren’t friendlies.
He relayed the information to Khalila, who had taken cover behind the side of Futtaim’s desk, and she called Durrani for backup. Harrison had no idea what kind of paramilitary forces the CIA had in Damascus or how long before they’d arrive, but was certain it would be too late. The armed men were already entering the building.
Still using Futtaim’s desk as cover, Khalila reached up and pulled his computer onto her lap. She dragged Futtaim’s corpse from his chair onto the floor, then placed his index finger on the laptop’s fingerprint scanner.
“We don’t have time for this!” Harrison shouted.
“We’re not leaving without the information!”
“Then we’re going to leave dead!”
This spy crap was complicating things. The tactical situation was clear in Harrison’s mind. They were about to be engaged by a dozen men and had to exit Futtaim’s office before the escape routes were sealed. They wouldn’t be able to fight their way out.
Khalila ignored him, and after gaining access to Futtaim’s computer, launched an internet browser to access a CIA website. She didn’t have a flash drive with her, so she tried to upload the contents of Futtaim’s computer to a CIA database. But when she accessed the hard drive to tag the desired folders, she watched in shock as the folders rapidly vanished. Someone was erasing the files.
“No, no, no!”
She disconnected the computer from the internet, hoping to sever the connection with whatever program was deleting the files, but the folders kept disappearing. She tried to shut down the laptop, but it disregarded the command. A virus must have been inserted into Futtaim’s computer, and there didn’t seem to be a way to stop it. She examined the back of the laptop, hoping to remove its battery pack, but it was an integrated unit. She flipped the laptop around as the last of the files were erased.
Khalila shoved the computer aside and searched Futtaim’s desk drawers, keeping her head below the top of the desk.
“Khalila! We have to leave!”
“Just a minute!”
It was probably already too late. The approaching men would have the elevators and stairways sealed off, and the only way out would be up, assuming he and Khalila could access the stairways before they were trapped in Futtaim’s office. However, that escape route led to a dead end, out in the open atop the roof, easy targets for nearby snipers on taller buildings.
After finding nothing noteworthy, Khalila slammed the last drawer shut. Meanwhile, Harrison focused on the more critical issue. They were trapped.
Through a side door in Futtaim’s office, he spotted a conference room with glass panels forming one side of the room, overlooking the Barada River. Harrison grabbed one of the dead guard’s pistols and tossed it to Khalila, who took a position beside the office entrance as he entered the conference room. He looked out the glass panels, estimating the distance to the river. There was a side street below, which they’d have to clear to land in the water. The question was—could they do it?
The sound of Khalila firing several rounds made the decision easy. They were penned in. He shoved the conference table aside, creating a clear path to the window, then shouted to Khalila.
“Into the conference room! We’re going to jump into the river!”
Harrison backed up against the far wall as Khalila squeezed off a few more rounds, then he put several bullets through one of the glass panels, shattering it. He looked through the doorway into Futtaim’s office as Khalila ran toward him.
He figured he would have to coax her into making the treacherous jump, but she didn’t ease up as she entered the conference room, headed for the opening. She hit the edge at a full sprint and leaped into the air, disappearing as she fell.
At least she follows directions well, Harrison thought.
He followed Khalila, sprinting across the room before leaping from the building.
As he fell, he watched Khalila plunge into the water below, joining her a few seconds later. He remained underwater, swimming back toward the stone embankment as bullets zinged into the murkiness around him, then angled toward a dark opening. He surfaced as he entered a narrow culvert, which provided a drainage path for rainwater from the streets above. He signaled to Khalila, who had surfaced against the embankment not far away, and she joined him in the recess.
“You okay?” he asked, checking her for wounds.
“Never better,” she replied, adding a smile.
As she wiped the water from her face and twisted her hair into a knot behind her head, Harrison realized this was the first time he’d seen Khalila smile.
The smile faded quickly, however. They had failed. It was obvious Mixell had made the procurement, but they had no idea what he’d bought or what the implications were.
Khalila had lost her pistol during the plunge into the Barada, but Harrison retained his. As he debated their options—remain hidden, work their way farther up the culvert, or emerge onto the embankment and vacate the area—there was a screech of tires on the road above, followed by an exchange of gunfire. It appeared the assistance Khalila called for had arrived.