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After Kornev awoke from his oxygen-starved slumber, he was lying on his side on a hardwood floor. His face hurt. His nose was sore. He expected he had suffered a nosebleed. In the back of his throat was the familiar metallic taste of blood. Being an international arms dealer came with many associated risks, one of which was sustaining injuries. The taste of blood was either something you grew accustomed to, or you probably should seek another vocation. Even the smell of blood gained a necessary familiarity. It could be a good smell or a bad smell, largely dependent on who was bleeding.
To alleviate his discomfort, Kornev tried to stretch his legs but discovered his ankles were bound—again. He couldn’t see the bindings, but he knew they were strong and tight. Probably some type of cord or wire. He probed with his fingers and discovered the sharp, recently cut end of something that felt like baling wire.
“Hello?” he called out.
There was no answer.
“Hello?” he repeated, this time louder but not with more urgency. More forceful is how the Russian would characterize it. His voice was low and still raspy from the smoke. He was thirsty, and he didn’t have a clue how long he’d been unconscious. Shades of the tunnel in Termez flashed in his mind sending shivers down his back.
Kornev writhed around on the ground, propelling himself forward with only his toes, little by little, until he found the closest wall. Using his head and neck as a lever against the yellowing wall, he worked his way up into a sitting position, with his legs off to one side and still bound to his wrists. This position put increased tension on his wrists, but right now he didn’t care. When Kara returned (correction...if Kara returned), he wanted to be sitting upright, not lying down like a beaten dog. What made matters worse was that this was the second time she had gotten a drop on him; only too recently in a tunnel under his own home, he had been hogtied by the same woman after being subdued with a rear-end chokehold. And then she’d abandoned him. Coincidentally, he had just experienced the same result when he had exited yet another of his tunnels. This woman really had a knack for choking and a predilection for tunnels. She was a regular underground UFC fighting star.
Kornev had never wished death upon someone more than he wished it for the CIA bitch. If he had believed in God, he would be praying to get his hands around her tiny neck one last time.
*-*-*
The Russian’s voice could be heard throughout the house, but Kara ignored him. She was busy setting up the kids in their new bedroom—creating a new safe room within Safe House Two. She had disarmed and removed the bedroom window booby trap to prevent the children from causing an explosion that would seal their deaths. Again, she transferred the TV from the living room to their bedroom located on the side of the house. She covered all the windows in this safe house using sheets and blankets to make reconnaissance of the dwelling difficult.
She gave each child a juice box, granola bar and a candy bar for dessert. Making sure they had the tablet, movies, and noise-cancelling headphones before she left the room, she locked the bedroom door. Until she made the call to the banker and began negotiations, she didn’t expect any further fireworks. It should be a quiet night.
From his hollering, Kara was well aware the Russian was awake. She found him propped up against the wall. He was still, in an awkward sitting position with his legs jutted off to one side, but he was fully conscious. As Kara expected, he looked furious.
Kara initiated the conversation. “Hello, Victor.”
Kornev said nothing. He just stared at her with blatant contempt.
“Cat got your tongue, Victor?”
“You have no idea what you started,” Kornev said, sounding quite unconcerned for the woman and her predicament.
“I know exactly what I started,” Kara shot back, dropping to the floor directly in front of the Russian. Sitting comfortably in a crossed-leg yoga position, she continued, “We have a lot to talk about. Eventually we’ll get to you tracking me down and trying to kill me, but for right now, I first want to concentrate on Zain Shallah.”
Gruffly, Kornev complained, “These wires are cutting into my wrists and my ankles.”
“If you want to be more comfortable, let’s talk about Zain Shallah.”
“What about him?”
“To start with, I wanted to confirm with you he was the man who killed my parents.”
“I already told you he was, when you questioned me back in Termez.” As far as Kornev knew, Zain Shallah was the man responsible. It was either him or his brother, but what difference did that make? If you pour dirty water into clean water, the result was the same—is the same—dirty water.
Kara smiled confidently and said, “Good, I just wanted to make sure because I kidnapped his children.”
“What?” Kornev asked, stunned by the admission.
“Yeah, I scoped out the banker’s mansion for several days, but I couldn’t figure out how to breach the mansion without losing my life. That’s when I considered the children playing outside. Then I decided the best way to get to him was by taking something that he loved.”
Kornev acted as if he still didn’t believe her.
He asked, “You have Kahn Shallah in your possession right now?”
“Yes. Both of his kids are in the bedroom across the hall.”
“He could care less about the girl. In this part of the world, very little value is placed on female children and women, in general. However, if you have his son, you really stirred a hornet’s nest. We need to get out of here.”
“Don’t be a worrywart, Victor. I thought he was your friend.”
“It’s not that. I just don’t want to get killed in the crossfire.”
Kara laughed mockingly at the man and asked, “And why do you think you would get killed in the crossfire? We will contact him and offer him a trade. His life for that of his son’s. If he loves his son as much as you claim, this should be an easy transaction.”
“You don’t know Zain Shallah. He comes from a family of zealous militants. He has decades of experience in coordinated attacks against hardened targets, and this—” Kornev made a swooping gesture with his chin, “...this home isn’t a hardened target.”
“It was hardened enough to kill all your men and land you on my floor,” Kara reminded him, frowning insolently at the Russian.
“He’s not going to come at you with a handful of men. He will come at you with an army. He will close in on all sides, and there will be no possibility of escape.”
Kara shrugged and said, “We will make the exchange in a public area – a place where the demographics don’t work in his favor.”
Kornev didn’t look convinced. “You still don’t understand. He is probably outside right now. He knows where his son is. Shallah is mobilizing as we speak.”
“How in the world does he know where his son is?” Kara asked.
“He embedded a tracker in his son. I know because I sold him the very latest generation of trackers. He specifically told me he wanted the tracking device for his son.”
Kara said, “I had already thought of that. I used your scanner I found in the tunnel to scan both kids for embedded tracking devices.”
“That wouldn’t work. That tracker won’t detect the new generation of devices.”
“And why is that?” Kara asked, not trusting whether the arms dealer was buying time or not.
“Because the new generation of trackers are active, not passive devices. They turn on once every hour to check if they are within their home area. If the sensor detects they are home it resets for another hour. If the tracker doesn’t detect the home signal in the specified time limit, it continually sends out a signal, like a homing beacon, until it runs out of battery power. It can also charge itself through the skin using a proximity charger.”
Kara was beginning to understand, but Kornev wasn’t done.
“The reason the scanner didn’t detect the new tracker is these new devices operate on ultra-high radio frequencies. The detector you used can’t register signals in those frequencies.”
If what the scumbag revealed proved to be true, this was not welcome news. Kara, the kids, and Kornev were in the middle of a foreign country and thousands of miles away from anyone who could sound an alarm. Even if such an alarm could be sounded, who in the world would care enough to come to her rescue?
“You still don’t understand!” Kornev warned. “Zain Shallah literally owns Peshawar’s police force. He helped put the new inspector into office and pays a large monthly stipend to keep a large militia in a readied state.”
Kornev might have laughed at the woman’s colossal underestimation of the situation she had created for herself, but as he truthfully told her, he, too, was susceptible to any projectile that went crisscrossing though the home.
As if to punctuate Kornev’s point, they heard a shotgun blast coming from the safe home they had just vacated.
*-*-*
Zain and his men drove to the property in the four Land Rovers provided by the police department. Based on the experience he gained by going on missions with his father and brother, he understood stealth was his best friend. The element of surprise was of more importance than firepower. Without it, the firepower could be taken out rather quickly. Up on a little hill overlooking the front of the property, Zain lay prone under a low-lying bush and peered out through a pair of binoculars. It was well into dusk yet there was enough light to clearly see the home. With only the two homes in the immediate area, the signal emanating from the chip implanted in his son indicated he was in one of them. Since the trackers worked via radio and not satellite communication, the exact position of his son could not be pinpointed.
Zain triggered his Motorola headset radio and said, “Two of you move forward and try to gain entry through the front door.”
Forty meters from Zain, two men emerged from the foliage and carefully made their way to the front door of the Safe House One. Both police officers wore black combat vests, pants and helmets. One of the men stole a quick glance in the front window and then pressed his back up against the wall. He made a gesture with his hand, covering his eyes indicating to his partner the front window was covered. The lead man also had his back pressed up against the home exterior. He knocked on the door with the tip of his assault rifle. The attackers waited. Nothing. No sounds of movement could be detected inside. The first man again looked at the window to see if anyone was looking out. Feeling overconfident, the lead man moved quickly to the other side of the door and tried the door handle, staying clear of the door. To his surprise, it turned. He pulled it open a few inches.
The staccato blast of a machine gun at close range blew a melon-size hole through the door. The other men shared a look that said, “Damn good thing we weren’t in front of that door!”
The door had slammed open, rebounded off the outside wall, and slammed shut a second time. The man positioned on the exterior side of the home opened the well-ventilated door a second time. This time nothing happened. No gunshot. No explosion. No noise at all came from inside the home. With his gun out front, the lead man poked his head around what was left of the doorjamb and scanned the room for threats. A moment later, he gave his waiting partner a thumbs-up. The men were ready to move in quickly, centered in the doorway, to secure the house. As they crossed the threshold, the lead man moved his gun from side to side making it appear he was directing traffic.
His second step into the front room caused a wood board to creak under his heavy boot. Neither man heard the tiny click of the pressure switch underneath the loose board. Nanoseconds later, a land mine exploded under the first man and the blast traveling up and out. The lead man disappeared inside a fireball and a salvo of burning woodchips. The blast fired him like he was shot out of a canon, and as he skyrocketed upward, his skull smashed into the ceiling. Then, he crashed back with equal velocity after being reduced to a fiery mass of gelatinous matter.
From his perch on the side of the hill, Zain stood awestruck watching the explosion through his binoculars. He did his best to discern what he had witnessed. He’d watched as a blast punched a massive hole in the front door. There must have been some explosive—possibly time-delayed, or a booby trap had been tripped to obliterate the entire door. Zain couldn’t see the first man. The shock wave from the blast had lifted the second man off his feet and tossed him like a scarecrow ten meters into the middle of the front yard. Zain watched but detected no movement. Most likely he was dead. But if unconscious, he was certainly out of the fight.
The banker inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly. Was his son in there? The boy must not be hurt. He had to assume his son had been kidnapped for a reason. Surely the kidnappers would keep him safe, but where was he? What if this wasn’t the correct home? After all, there was a 50/50 chance his son was being held in the other place. In the back of his mind, Zain thought no kidnapper would go to this extreme of rigging the home so thoroughly unless it was where the kidnappers and his son were hunkered down.
Zain keyed his radio and said, “I want two of you to try the window in the front room on the north side of the home.” There was dead silence across the radio.
“I will pay those who volunteer to go in through the window double your active pay.”
A moment later two men left their hiding places. Like the men before, they cautiously headed toward the home, vigilantly searching their surrounds for imminent danger. In a lightening-fast karate-syle move their boots made crunching sounds on the window’s shiny glass, pulverizing and blasting it out in all directions. Instantly both men had ducked down so they were below the level of the window sill. No explosion! Crouching didn’t give them a sense of confidence, but it was a helluva of a lot better than walking erect and fully exposed to any ordnance that might be fired at them. Having successfully reached the window opening, one man took a quick look-see through the window. He saw nothing but a tattered white sheet that still obscured the opening. He ducked back down. He and his partner remained well below the level of the window ledge and safe from potential weapon fire.
They looked at each other. So far so good. Now it was time for the hard part. One man parted the sheet using the tip of his rifle and waited for a response. Nothing. Keeping the sheet parted, he quickly looked through the opening, and like a paranoid jack in the box, popped back down. He took a moment to analyze the image that had been captured on the back of his eyeballs. He decided he could chance another glimpse, so he raised his head up a second time. This time he lingered an additional second trusting that if someone was watching him, the aim of the watcher’s gunshot would hit him central mass. The only thing worse than dying from a headshot was living your life as a vegetable after surviving it.
Still looking in from the outside, the man observed the carnage. The front room of the home had seen better days. The place was decorated in “Early American Destruction” with pieces of the wood floor and front door. Small piles of burning debris sat on the hardwood floor, threatening to catch fire if someone added more fuel. He saw no people inside the room, only the unfortunate dead guy located in the charred space that had once been the front door. The floor nearest the door looked as if a fiery dragon had taken a bite out of it.
The lead man stood and pointed his gun into the living room.
“Go,” his partner urged while maintaining his position crouched below the window ledge, staying clear of any perceived threats. The man standing handed his rifle to his partner and placed his hands on the window ledge. At least he thought it was a ledge. It turned out to be a board Kara had placed on the window ledge. This board immediately dislodged, fell to the ground, and ripped the tripwire out of the M18A1 Claymore mine. This particular device had been nested between the outer siding and the interior dry wall, in one of the only areas Kara had found a space where cement-filled cinderblocks would have prevented the trap. Instead of exploding upward, the Claymore exploded outward. It punched a car-size hole through the side of the home, and the two men who had been standing near the explosion literally vanished in thin air.
In the distance, Zain looked on in disbelief. He removed his cell phone from his pocket and made a call. The inspector picked up on the other end.
In a frustrated voice, Zain said, “I am going to need more men.”
“How many?” the inspector asked.
“How many do we have?”
“On your reserve payroll, you have 400 men.”
“OK,” Zain said.
“OK, what? How many do you want?” Mehsud asked.
“I want all 400 men. Give them my radio frequency, and I will deploy them as they arrive.”
Skeptically, the inspector asked, “Are you sure you need that many?”
“We have two options available,” Zain explained. “We can either do this with overwhelming numbers or overwhelming force. When I say force, I’m referring to tanks and artillery. The option to use overwhelming force will be very loud and public. It might also kill my son. It is in our best interests to use overwhelming numbers. The person responsible for taking my son will have no chance of escape. Either way, I will serve the individual who dared take my son a signed death warrant.
“I understand your point,” the police chief said. “I will call in all 400 men. They should start arriving within the hour.”
“OK,” Zain said and the conversation ended.
*-*-*
Minutes after the gun’s blast, Kara heard an explosion from the property next door. She walked throughout the home turning off lights, ensuring she didn’t silhouette herself when she looked out the window.
The window with the best vantage point of the other home was in the third bedroom. Kara pulled the blanket aside to create a slit she could look through. The front door of Safe House One was gone and the opening was on fire. She couldn’t see inside the home, but she saw a man on his back in the front yard. Kara continued, waiting to see if any further steps were underway to gain entry to the home. From the far side of the home, she saw two men leave the darkness and disappear on the opposite side. She knew all the windows on that side of the home had been wired. A few minutes later an explosion indicated the men had located a booby trap.
Kara’s time was running out. Once her attackers cleared the home next door, it only made sense they would turn their attention to this safe house.
Leaving the window, she walked back into the bedroom and asked Kornev, “How many men do you think are out there?”
Kornev smiled and said nothing.
Kara took the handgun out of her large pocket and pointed it at the Russian.
“How many?” she asked a second time. “And if you think I won’t shoot you, you don’t know me well.”
The big man’s smile disappeared. He said, “More men than you could kill if you had a machine gun in every window. If I had to guess, I would say there are hundreds of men.”
*-*-*
As Zain’s men arrived, he deployed them in a relatively tight circle around the two homes. He wanted to create a perimeter and a kill zone that was both impenetrable and inescapable. To be effective, each man had to have eye contact with the men to his left and right. Utilizing this method, no one could enter or leave the home without being seen. The number of men dictated the perimeter’s size. As increasingly more men poured forth from the little towns around the area, each was assigned a position. Inspector Sardar Mehsud had promised 400 men, but by Zain’s count only a little more than 300 men had heeded the call. However, three hundred was still a lot of men, leaving Zain confident in the outcome.
Considering the amount of damage exacted on the first home, Zain was growing convinced his son was being held in the second home. Other than the well-placed booby traps, there had been no small arms fire emanating from the home. Tactically, though, it was important first to clear the first home. It would eliminate the prospect of his son being held there, and the home would provide his men additional cover when it came time to infiltrate the second home.
A ten-man breach team quickly assembled and Zain sent them to clear the first home.
The hole on the side of the home offered them a wide entrance previously cleared of booby traps–the hard way. The team entered the home, careful to avoid loose boards near doors and windows. In short order, the home was cleared, all booby traps disabled, and they reported to Zain his son was not inside.
Zain stood and positioned himself closer to the action. He focused his binoculars on the second home once he was less than fifty meters from the property line. He spotted a single light inside the home that burned from what he thought was a bedroom. Other than that, the home was stone-cold still.
As he looked from window to window, he noted that each one was covered with some type of material, just like the first home.
This was it. This was the place. He knew that his boy was inside the second home, and he wouldn’t leave without his son–dead or alive. Those responsible would pay the ultimate price for kidnapping his son. They had no idea who they had angered.
*-*-*
“Tell me exactly, who are we messing with?” Kara asked Kornev. “I want to know everything you know about the man.” While talking, she loaded ammo into dozens of rifle magazines on the floor next to her. Alternating between tracer rounds and standard rounds, she stuffed one bullet after another into each mag.
“Loosen the wires. They’re starting to cut into my wrists,” Kornev complained, attempting to shift his position to reduce the pressure.
Kara gave Kornev a pouty face and said, “Poor old Victor Kornev. May I remind you that you just tried to kill me? If you give me something I can work with, I might consider making you more comfortable.”
The Russian appeared to be thinking over her proposal.
Kara placed another loaded magazine on the floor and began filling the next one.
Finally, Kornev said, “I can’t tell you anything that will save you. As we sit here, Zain Shallah is assembling a huge force, and nothing you have, short of an atomic bomb, will stop him from entering this house. The men on Shallah’s payroll are well paid to do just this, and they are very good.”
Kara tried to determine if the information Kornev supplied was useful. It did provide her an insight into the extent Shallah loved his son as well as the assets he had at his disposal.
Kara asked, “What about armaments?” She added another loaded magazine to the growing pile.
Kornev said, “Each man will have a gun. And probably a sidearm as well.”
“What about body armor?” Kara asked.
The Russian thought she sounded amazingly calm given the risky and quite possibly deadly situation she had created.
Kornev said, “If they own body armor, they will wear it. Shallah doesn’t issue his men weapons or gear. They are responsible for bringing whatever they need to keep them alive and fighting. At the most, Shallah may have some extra AK ammo, since most of their weapons will be AK-47s.”
“What about night vision?”
“Same deal. If they own it, they’ll bring it. Most of these men are poor because rich men don’t need a dangerous side job. My guess is that 1:100 may have night vision capabilities.”
“What type of rules do you think they’ll play by?” Kara asked, finishing up with the last magazine. Her fingers hurt, and she noted blisters forming on her loading hand.
Kornev played dumb, as if he didn’t comprehend what she was asking.
Kara stood and kicked the Russian hard in his side.
“What type of rules does he play by?” Kara seethed.
Kornev groaned and grimaced. Between clenched teeth, he asked, “What do you mean?”
“Are they going to come in loud? Will the attack include artillery? How big of an event are they going to make this thing?”
Kornev shuffled around on the floor turning on the side Kara had just brutally kicked.
When he spoke, he no longer masked his growing anger. “It will get loud, but they have to keep a cap on it. The inspector won’t want this action to make the papers, and he certainly doesn’t want it to become an international incident.”
Kornev stopped talking for a moment, and then added, “But one less rogue CIA agent won’t be missed. Will your boss–what’s his name? Will Pepper even miss you, much less send you some help? Or will you be disavowed since this is most likely not a sanctioned mission?”
Kara felt like kicking the sleaze ball again, but she knew if she started she may not stop. Like it or not, she had a reason to keep Kornev around and breathing.
Kara looked at the Russian and said, “I want you to go and meet with Shallah. I want you to tell him that I will trade the life of his children for his own.”
Kornev began laughing which hurt his bruised side and his wrists making his joviality short lived.
After mocking her for a moment, he responded, “Why would you think I have any interest in helping you?”
“Living comes to mind, Victor. If they come in here hot, you and I share the same chance of being killed. Without your cooperation, I am considering using you as a human booby trap. Maybe I’ll wire you to a chair in front of the back door. Maybe I’ll duct tape a rifle in your hands. That way you can be the welcoming committee and let them inside. These guys appear predisposed to shoot first and not ask questions later.”
The Russian didn’t laugh at either her deadly proposal or her quip.
He huffed and said, “I don’t know what good it will do you. It won’t change the outcome. I promise you this—you will not get out of here alive. Shallah will not let you live. He has a reputation to protect. It is not in his DNA to allow anyone, especially a woman, to remain alive after kidnapping his son. Having you walk away from this would insult his entire heritage.”
“You let me worry about that,” Kara said. “What do you say? Will you go out and meet with him or not? Let me know now. I have stuff to do. It’s going to be a long night.”
“Just curious,” Kornev asked. “Once I walk out the front door, why would I come back?”
Kara pointed out, “Can your conscience handle knowing you are responsible for the demise of those kids? If you don’t come back, you will ultimately be responsible for what happens to them.”
Though Kara was coldly convincing, Kornev doubted she would hurt the kids.
Then again, as far as Kornev knew, the CIA agent was wacko. After all, only a crazy bitch would have kidnapped a terrorist’s kids. She was poking a bear and seemed unconcerned.
Kara realized that she was becoming somewhat crazy. Crazy for revenge — but, no, she could never hurt children, no matter the circumstance. Even if it meant sacrificing her life so they would live. They were pure. It was irrelevant that their father was dirty and corrupt. He, by contrast, would pay, with his life, for the death of her parents.
All this time, Kara had told herself that she didn’t really care if she lived provided she was able to get some justice and kill the terrorist who had killed her parents. Nevertheless, she realized if Kornev was being straight with her, there was no surviving this operation. She had boxed herself into a situation with no escape options. It took learning of her perilous situation to reach the conclusion that she did have a desire to live. Damn piss-poor planning and a lack of understanding that life, a precious commodity, should be cherished and embraced. She thought about Marshall Hail. She hated to admit it, but Marshall was one of the few true reasons she wanted to remain alive on this planet. How sad was that? He was still mourning the loss of his beloved family. Any dream of a future with him was highly questionable. Buried deep in her soul, there remained that primal instinct, a self-preservation instinct that all animals felt, no matter the level in the food chain. Kara suddenly knew she was not as tough as she acted or imagined herself. She was just a woman trapped in a home with children and an arms dealer and surrounded by hundreds of militants who possessed zero scruples. Without help, she would soon be a dead woman.
Not knowing if it would do her any good, she took out her phone and dialed a number she had committed to memory. A voice answered, “This is Hail.”